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THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY. 

NEW YORK. 




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0^7 






THE ADVENTURES 


ROBIN DAY 


j^OBERT yVloNTGOMERY ^IRD, yVL.p. 

AUTHOR, OR 

“ The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow,” “ Calavar,” “ The Infidel,” Etc. 


obin Day is the first of a series of republications of 
the Novels and Romances of Dr. Bird of Philadelphia, who, 
forty years ago, rivaled Cooper in popularity. They have 
been long out of print, and it is believed that this edition, 
carefully edited, and issued in good style, will meet with an 
active demand. 

Robin Day is full of exciting adventure. The autobi- 
ography of an outcast living in the first part of the present 
century, it presents with much power stirring scenes in the 
War of 1812, in Florida when it was a Spanish province, in 
the country of the warlike Creek Indians, at sea among West 
India Pirates, etc. Its descriptions are picturesque, its char- 
acters well drawn and distinctive, and the book cannot fail 
to be very popular. 

PUBLISHED AS A CROWN 8vo, 360 PAGES. 

Cloth, hevelecl edges, ^1.50 

Paper, - - - 

Robin Day will be followed by the other Novels of Dr. 
Bird in rapid succession. To Calavar will be prefixed a 
biographical sketch of the author. 

Sent by mail, free, on receipt of price. 

JOHN POLHEMUS, 

102 Nassau Street, N. F. 


Cijristmas-Eve 


LIGHT-HOUSE ; 


OR, 


A Batch 


of Old Stories Re-told. 

I 


By henry S. hicks. 


V. 

Heap on more wood ! The wind is chill ; 

But let it whistle as it will, 

We ’ll keep our merry Christmas still. 
******** 



T was Christmas broached the mightiest ale ; 

T was Christmas told the merriest tale ; 

A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 

The poor man’s heart through half the year. 

— Sir Walter Scott. 

■ / 



Htto ^ork: 

THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY. 



1 




Copyright 1877, 

BY 


HENRY S. HICKS avtd JOHN POLHEMUS. 


PREFACE. 


Dear Reader: 

/ 

In tendering for your perusal the following series 
of Christmas Stories, it is with the sincere desire that they 
may serve to add, if possible, to your enjoyment of the 
Advent Festival. Whilst the general scope and treatment 
of the narrative is entirely of my own construction, 
yet, as the title implies, T have not hesitated to appro- 
priate the main incidents embodied in one or two of the 
tales from other sources, with the desire to work out 
an harmonious whole. Sincerely wishing you all the Com- 
pliments of the Season, 

I would subscribe myself 

Yours, very faithfully, 

H. S. H. 

December, 1877. 


PEDICATED 

TO THi: MEMORY OE 

^ ^ ear Polder, 

WHOSE GENTLE, LOVING PRESENCE BRIGHTENED AND 
HALLOWED MANY RECURRING CHRISTMAS- 
EVES IN THE BOYHOOD OF 


THE COMPILER, 




CONTENTS. 


Chapter 


I.— PROLOGUE— CHRISTMAS-EVE— THE “WILD IRISH- 
MAN.” 

IL— THE MAJOR’S STORY.— “ HOW I WON MY WIFE.” 

I 

III.— THE MANAGING-CLERK’S STORY.— “A DELICATE 
MISSION.” 


.. IV.— THE AMERICAN’S STORY.— “ A ROCKY MOUNTAIN 

ADVENTURE.” 

“ V.— BASIL WILTON’S STORY.— “THE GHOST ON THE 

NORTH ATLANTIC.” 

“ VL— THE LIGHT-KEEPER’S STORY.— “ THE CORPSE 

GLEAM.” 

“ VIL— THE DOCTOR’S STORY.— “ MURDER WILL OUT.” 

“ VIIL— THE STRANGER’S STORY.— “ AFTER MANY DAYS.” 


IX.— EPILOGUE— CHRISTMAS-DAY. 












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CHRISTMAS-EVE IN A LIGHT-HOUSE; 

OK, 

A Batch of Old Stories Re -told. 


BY HENRY S. HICKS. 


CHAPTER I. 

PROLOGUE — CHRISTMAS EVE — “ THE WILD IRISHMAN.” 

’Tis “Cliristraas Eve” in mighty London. Not one of 
your more modern and degenerate seasons, charged vdth 
foggy miasma and rainy discomfort, chilling one to the 
very and marrow,” and converting every available 

yard of earth into a “Slough of Despond,” but a real, 
roaring, old-fasliioned season — just such a one as poor 
Dickens loved to discourse on and share in — with the streets^ 
ankle deep in snow whilst the whirling flakes circle and 
eddy around the amply enveloped wayfarer ; every portico 
and balcony fringed with a border of icy pendents ; while 
the trees in the parks have for the nonce hidden their soot- 
begrimed limbs under a feathery raiment not their own. 

It is cold, ver^ cold, but the streets are gay with an ever- 
shifting crowd of busy passers-by— some in cabs and 
’busses, and a vastly larger proportion on foot— pushing 
and jostling along the pavement with varied gait and as- 
pect, but all alike intent on one main end and object: asiiit- 
able preparation for the observance of the great Christian 
festival of the morrow. Here and there, skirting the tide 
of traffic, may be seen some waif of society, whose shabby 
exterior and heavy, slouching tread proclaim a stolid and 
despairing indifference to the cheering influences of the 
season ; but these are in ah infinitesimal minority, and 


8 Christmas- Em in a Light-house. 

only offer an eloquent and touching contrast. Let us stand 
for a moment at the portals of the famous “ Angel Tavern,” 
“in merrie Islington,” and, lo, what a tide of restless 
energy streams by. The great bell of St. Tudno’ s Church 
has just clanged forth the hour of two, and the city is 
pouring forth a rushing contingent of spruce clerks 
and active bank messengers, for whom the custom of 
the season has secured a welcome respite from the 
wonted thraldom of a high stool in a musty office, 
and the incessant wielding of the customary goose- quill. 
There goes a tall young fellow from the Stock Exchange. 
He intends spending his Christmas far beyond the sound of 
Bow Bells, amid the comforts and enjoyments of a cozy 
country house in pleasant Surrej^, where “ bulls and bears” 
will for a time cease to trouble or affect him, in token 
whereof a smart, well-packed “Gladstone” lies at this 
moment duly deposited in the trim cloak-room at King’s 
Cross. Close to our friend’s elbow trudges the confidential 
clerk of Messrs. Smiteall & Starvem, the eminent legal 
practitioners of Lime street Chambers, a most respectable 
and responsible firm, whose successfully employed strategy 
in the great D case is even now a favorite topic in cir- 

cles where legal luminaries “ most do congregate ” and shine. 
Mr. Carlton Judkins, or “Rooky” Judkins, as he is some- 
times irreverently called by the “juniors,” amongst them- 
selves, in probable allusion to his suit of “irreproachable 
black,” is a well-preserved gentleman of five and forty, with 
a shrewd, calculating face and a sonorous voice, at once a 
terror to all opposing candidates for forensic success, and a 
“thing of joy” to Messrs. Smiteall & Co., in whose service 
“Rooky” has vegetated from very boyhood, entering as 
office boy, and mounting step by step the ladder of promo- 
tion until, with the top-most rung, he has attained his present 
position. It is needless to say he is unmarried— all confi- 
dential clerks seem to be bachelors— and in his right hand 
he bears the annual Turkey which shall go far toward 
ameliorating the acid temper of his worthy landlady in 
Kingsland, who “ca’nt abear to be worrited,” and for 
whom “Old Father Christmas” has no subtle charm. 


Prologue — CJiristmas-EDe. 9 

But we must not linger to watch paterfamilias on his 
varied round of visits, chief amongst which are the butcher 
and poulterer, (to say nothing of the wine-merchant,) nor can 
we stay to follow his wife and charming daughters on their 
own private shopping expedition for our Christmas, dear 
reader, is to be spent far away from the busy hum of city 
activity, and time presses; so hailing a “hansom,” and 
shouting, “Euston” we dash down Pentonville-hill past 
Kings Cross into the Euston road, and speedily pull up with 
a jerk at the classic portals of the station itself. Our train 
will not start until five minutes past three, and the hands of 
the clock in the entrance hall have scarcely reached the 
quarter before the hour, so we have ample time to cast our 
eyes about us. 

The depot at Euston Square is but a cheerless place at the 
best of times, even when the rays of the Summer sun may 
struggle through the dirt- coated panes of the great glass 
roof, whilst in the gloom of a December afternoon, and 
buried under a thick burden of snow, it is simply abhorent, 
and even the bright infiuences of Christmas fail to afford it 
a prepossessing appearance. And yet all is haste and bustle 
—outside cabs and broughams are continually discharging 
a crowd of intending passengers. Some red and worried as 
though the excitement of travelling entered but rarely 
into the routine of their tranquil lives. Others, and these 
by far in the majority, wear an appearance of careless 
indifference to the clamor and excitement around. Many 
of the latter are “ city men” who have left their snug offices 
for cozy villas in the pleasant suburbs of Harrow or Wat- 
ford. Inside is a perfect babel of noise and confusion, 
hotel-porters staggering half hidden under immense piles 
of luggage, which they are wheeling towards outgoing trains. 
“Guards” rushing wildly about jotting down carriage 
numbers in cute looking little way-books ; — others in anxi- 
ous attendance on gouty old gentlemen, from whom they 
anticipate a liberal fee, newsboys bawling the latest edi- 
tion of the afternoon papers, engines shrieking and whist- 
ling, doors slamming, inspectors shouting, bells ringing ; 
all these and a hundred other sounds confuse and half 


10 


Christmas- Eve in a Light-house. 


annihilate the timid voyageur, and amidst it all with quick 
gliding motion our train, the ‘‘Wild Irishman,” backs into 
the station and prepares to ^receive its freight and passen- 
gers. Meanwhile a little at one side from the main tide of 
traffic stands a man apparently about forty years of age, 
tall and massive, with square shoulders and well set head, 
his frame the very impersonation of manly strength, whilst 
the clear eye and weU chiselled nose and mouth give evi- 
dence of a natural strength of character intensified by ad- 
mixture with the rough elements of a hard and callous 
world. Regard him well, my reader, you are to journey 
together. 

Amid the many thousands who are keeping this merry 
Christmas-Eve, in the year of Grace, 1859. I imagine few 
possess a smaller measure of home ties than those owned by 
our hero, Basil W^ilton. The only son of a village surgeon, 
in the pleasant county of Dorset, and reared in the midst 
of delightful scenery, comprising hill and dale, breezy 
down and gentle upland— life, for him glided along very 
smoothly until he had reached his eighteenth year, when a 
sudden change in the professional prospects of an indulgent 
father rendered it imperative that he should commence the 
battle of life on his own account, and he selected the metro- 
polis as the field of his exertions. By the aid of old and influ- 
ential friends to whom the alteration in Dr. Wilton’s circum- 
stances preated no diminution in friendship, Basil was en- 
abled to procure a comparatively comfortable situation in the 
office of a large tea-broker in Mincing-Lane, and possessing 
naturally a winning and attractive manner with good abili- 
ties, he speedily ingratiated himself into the good opinion of 
the head of the firm, and for a time all went evenly and 
well. But soon the close restraints of city life began 
to prove irksome and Basil made up his mind to seek a 
wider acquaintance with the outside world of which he had 
heard and read so much. One momentous morning, to the 
utter amazement of his chief, he walked into the private 
office and quietly intimated his desire to be relieved from 
his duties as soon as possible, and a month later saw him on 
the deck of the “ Sidonian,” en route for New York. Forty 


Prologue — Christmas -Eve. 


11 


or forty-five years ago the United States offered a very fair 
field for the energies and capital of the emigrant, and by 
dint of hard, persistent push, Wilton speedily laid the foun- 
dation of his fortunes— and this once accomplished— to a 
nature such as his the rest was easy, and three months be- 
fore this story opens, he returned to his native country a 
comparatively rich man, owning considerable real estate in 
the land of his adoption, and not without hopes of one day 
returning home for good and all, and passing the re- 
mainder of his days in quiet comfort. During the first 
few years of his expatriation he had kept up a pretty steady 
correspondence with his father— his mother had died during 
his infancy— but by degrees his letters had dwindled down 
to an occasional note, and at last had ceased altogether. 
So that it was with an anxious heart he again set foot on 
the shores of Britain, and hurried fast as the iron-horse could 
carry him to the post-town nearest the home of his early 
years. As he leant back in the chaise which he had char- 
tered and gazed on each well-remembered spot — all seemed 
peaceful and unchanged — j ust as he had left it on the morn- 
ing of his departure for Liverpool, and yet he felt a strange 
throbbing at his heart, which somehow or another seemed 
to his overstrained nerves to take the form of a knell fore- 
telling impending calamity. But why dwell longer on the 
reception that awaited him. The grey-headed father, worn 
out by misfortune and care, lay side-by-side with the wife 
of his youth beneath the shadow of the ivy-clad village 
church, and the strong man shed tears of unavailing agony 
as he knelt by the graves of those who had given him birth. 
Dr. Wilton had migrated into Dorsetshire from a distant 
part of England on the occasion of his marriage, which for 
some reason or another had proved immensely distasteful to 
his family, who would never afterwards recognize him so that 
with the loss of his remaining parent, Basil Wilton parted 
with his only relative. The few who remembered him at all 
were content to offer him a tardy hospitality, after he had al- 
ready been quartered several days at the village inn and then 
in a tone and manner which implied at once a desire for his 
refusal, and an expectation that it would be given. Only 


12 Ohristmas-Eve in a Light-house. 

one true friend remained, in the person of the Rector of 
Welford— his father’s greatest intimate and sole executor — 
and from him Basil gleaned the melancholy details of his 
dead parent’s last hours, from the same hand receiving the 
scanty remnants of property which fell to his lot— all that 
had been saved from the grasping avarice and covetous 
hands of a horde of blood-sucking creditors. Ten days 
sufficed to settle everything, and having complied with the 
necessary legal formalities, Basil found himself once again 
in the British metropolis, without occupation, except an 
occasional correspondence with his agent in the States— a 
mere unit in the vast civilized expanse of London life. For 
a time the novelty of his situation pleased him by its very 
charm, and he was quite content to mix in the gaities his po- 
sition afforded, but soon the old sense of unrest again crept 
upon him, latent energies cried out for occupation, and, at 
the approach of Christmas, old memories reasserted them- 
selves and spoke of days long buried in the past, when the 
Advent season was something more to him than a name ; 
when the holly and mistletoe wreathed the walls of the old 
home at Welford ; when the village choir ushered in the 
cheery festival by a regular matinee of music and song ; 
when the mummers performed their grotesque comicalities,’ 
and dragged the the great beech yule-log to the hall kitchen, 
where the Squire kept open house from Christmas-Eve to 
Twelfth Night. Oh, those were gay, happy times, and 
when Basil Wilton had conjured up the ghost of the past, 
he found, like many before him, and probably as many 
others will feel after him, that the phantom of memory is 
difficult to exorcise, and so he straightway determined to 
go back to his fields and plantations in thriving Indiana, there 
to form stiU other ties and associations, and so quit the old 
country forever. Before, however, he was able to carryout 
his intention, an important business engagement necessitated' 
his presence in Dublin, and it is in pursuance of this object 
that we find him an intending passenger by the “Wild 
Irishman” on Christmas eve. The cry, oft repeated, of 
“tickets, gentlemen;” “all tickets ready,” recalls our 
friend to the fact that he has not as yet either procured his 


Prologue — Christmas -Erie. 13 

modest-looking bit of pasteboard or secured a seat in the 
first-class through carriage, labelled Holyhead ; so, hastily 
summoning a porter, and consigning to him his rug, port- 
manteau and hat-case, with an injunction to secure him a 
corner seat in the coupe allotted to those desirous of smok- 
ing, he hurries to the ticket office, and by the transfer of 
sundry coins of the realm, returns with the permit entitling 
him to travel through to Dublin in company with Her 
Majesty’s mail. There is something always touching in the 
surroundings of the last moments immediately preceding 
the departure of a train for distant points from a large rail- 
road depot. So many sympathies are involved — so many 
severances take place. Some for a longer or shorter period 
—some forever. The passengers are generally far more 
cheerful than the friends left behind ; the excite- 
ment of the journey is upon them ; they have no 
time to moralize or dwell on any of those contin- 
gencies which present themselves unbidden to the 
relatives and friends they may leave behind. But we 
have no time for further soliliquy — our iron- winged mon- 
ster is snarling impatiently, and precisely at five minutes 
after three with a shrill whistle we glide rapidly out of the 
station. We are timed to stop but once in the seventy- 
seven miles intervening between London and Rugby, and 
then only for a few minutes in order to pick up the mail 
bags at Blis worth. So our speed after passing Willesden 
rapidly increases until we are pounding away to the tune 
of at least forty miles an hour. Rugby is reached at 5:10, 
and here the passengers alight for a brief ten minutes of 
refreshment. Basil, who has lunched before leaving Lon- 
don, finds ample amusement in watching the various 
groups on the platform and the busy scene at the gaily- 
decorated bookstall, where a flourishing trade is being ac- 
complished in Christmas annuals, straps, rugs, reading 
lamps, and the latest papers. But the ten minutes are 
soon Qver, and we are off again. The air grows colder and 
travellers wrap their robes closer about them and dilli- 
gently apply themselves to the task of rendering them- 
selves as comfortable as circumstances will admit, lights 


14 


Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 


begin to twinkle from cottage casements as we dash with a 
reverberating roar through the outskirts of quiet villages or 
flourishing market towns, and almost before we have time 
to properly settle ourselves for a nap we find we are first at 
Stafford, then Crewe, and finally awake under the gray walls 
of quaint old Chester. The river looks cold in the moonlight, 
and the white mantle of snow on the Roodee gleams and 
glistens like an expanse of glass, whilst upon the night air 
is borne, sweet and clear, the refrain of some distant band 
of carol singers as they chant the staves of a popular 
Christmas ditty. Another brief interval for recuperating 
the inner man and again we pursue our iron road. Queen’ s 
Ferry is passed, and we are speedily across the border and 
within the limits of the country of Cadwallader and Lle- 
wellyn— the land of Druid rites and Bardic song. There 
are but few passengers now, the surplus having alighted at 
Chester, and our previously long train is reduced to an 
engine, mail and guards’ van, and two carriages. In the 
solitary first-class compartment sit our friend Basil Wilton, 
Major Ponsonby, a retired officer of Indian cavalry ; Henry 
Marston, managing clerk to a firm of London engineers ; 
and Stanton Bell, a sinait young American from New 
Hampshire. All four smoke, and thus a bond of union 
has sprung up, so that between the puffs of fragrant 
Havanas, or milder cheroots, a disjointed conversation 
has arisen. “ It must be getting late queries the Major. 
Nearly half -past nine replies Bell, pulling out his Waltham, 
and we are but just at Rhyl. The mail train is late 
to-night but we shall pull up between here and Conway, 
its a good clear run with few grades of any importance, 
and we then get a fine stretch of road to Bangor. By this 
time the storm had risen to great violence and at every blast 
the train fairly rocked, altho’ its pace was in no way im- 
peded or lessened. At Bangor the guard came to the 
carriage window inquiring whether or no either of the gen- 
tlemen would care to alight and sleep in the town, as the 
Station-master had just received a telegram from Holyhead 
to the effect that it was extremely doubtful whether or no 
the Dubhn steamer would cross in the teeth of the gale, 


15 


Prologue — Christmas-Ere. 

whilst Hotel accommodation in Holyhead was very limited. 
The quartette were, however, unanimous in their determina- 
tion to proceed, so after getting their pocket-flasks re-fllled, 
and laying in a good supply of creature comforts at the 
melancholy -looking refreshment room, where a young 
lady in corkscrew ringlets dispensed such fare as Bangor 
afforded, they again resumed their seats and the train 
proceeded. And now commenced the wildest portion of 
the journey. The snow lay piled almost to the heigh th of 
the carriage windows, "which were covered with a thick 
outer coating of ice. Both driver and fireman were muf- 
fled up almost beyond recognition, and only by the exer- 
cise of feet and hands could they keep these members from 
freezing. On the one side the sea roared and lashed in wild 
fury, whilst at times one wave more adventurous than the 
rest would fairly sweep the track before the advancing 
train. On the other the white slopes of the AV elsh moun- 
tains rose dark and forbidding, their summits lost in the 
impenetrable mist that hung around them black as a funeral 
pall. Across the heavens rushed vast masses of clouds, 
now dark, now fleecy white, half-hiding the Winter moon, 
and at times burying it altogether from sight, whilst the 
forked lightning scintillated in coruscations of Are. In 
deed and truth a wild Christmas-Eve. But still the Mail 
dashed on as tho’ regardless of the strife of elempts that 
surged around over the wonderful bridge at Menai through 
the dark pine woods of Anglesea— under the shadow of giant 
rocks and then plunging deep into the recesses of some 
gloomy tunnel until twinkling in the distance appeared the 
welcome lights of Holyhead, and here for a time our jour- 
ney ceases. Eager and anxious were the queries lavished 
upon the Kailway officials on arrival: “Will the boat 
start?” “Is the weather likely to clear?” “How about 
the mail-bags ?’ ’ These and a dozen other questions were at 
once disposed of by the single reply from the inspector : 
“Gentlemen, until the weather lifts the steamer dares not 
venture outside the breakwater ; it would be perfect mad- 
ness to attempt it, but there is a large Are in my office which 
is very much at your service.” 


16 


ChristmaS'Eve in a Light-house. 

The warm interior of the Inspector’s room was a welcome 
exchange for the cold discomfort of a railway carriage and 
the offer was accepted as readily as it was extended. The 
apartment owned but a solitary occupant in the person of 
the Doctor from Porthenna, a village some eight miles from 
Holyhead, who had been kept late in attendance on a pa- 
tient, and who courteously rose on the entrance of our trav- 
elers and made way for them to approach the ample fire 
which blazed in a large, old-fashioned grate.” A cold night, 
gentlemen,” said he. Have you journeyed far? All the 
way from town, replied Wilton, and speaking for myself, I 
should be glad still to continue my journey to Dublin, but 
it appears that owing to the storm tlie confounded mail 
steamer will not cross to-night ? And quite right too, re- 
turned the Doctor — it is one of our worst winter gales. On 
just such another night as this, the ill-fated “Windermere” 
went to pieces on the rocks below, and with such a w^arn- 
ing before him, to say nothing of a hundred others, my 
friend the captain of the “Victoria” is far too wise and 
skillful a seaman to endanger his craft and reputation by 
any exhibition of foolhardiness. AVere you resident here 
at the period of the catastrophe inquired Stanton Bell? 

I was then in practice in a village much nearer to Holy- 
head, and was amongst the first to arrive on the scene which 
will never be effaced from my mind as long as memory lasts. 

As I before stated it was just such another night as this 

worse if anything— and although our brave boatmen did all 
that men could do in the effort to save life their humane 
endeavors were crowned with but a scant measure of suc- 
cess. The appliances, then, were not what they are to- 
day , and our solitary life-boat had gone round the Head to 
take off the crew of a coaster which had hoisted signals of 
distress,and which shortly afterwards foundered,so that our 
only resource lay in a rocket apparatus bv means of which 
a rope was carried on board the ill-fated vessel, and by this 
means nine passengers and seamen were rescued. One of 
our fishing boats was swamped before it could cross the 
bar, and two poor fellows, named Owen Williams and John 
Jones, were lost. I can assure you it was a sorry day for 


Prologue — Christmas- Em. 


17 


Anglesea and for many other nooks and corners in our 
land. Two hundred and seventy-nine bodies were washed 
on shore, and the work of identilication and interment 
went on uninterruptedly for nearly a fortnight. Have no 
means been since taken, doctor, in order to avert a like 
castastrophe asked the Major ? I am glad to say Govern- 
ment has shown itself fully alive to the dangers and 
necessities of the coast, and the Trinity Board a year or 
two ago erected a tine light-house on the summit of the 
“ Stack ” furnished with a powerful electric light which may 
be discerned from a long distance even in the thickest 
weather. Forbes, the keeper, is an old acquaintance of 
mine, and, if, gentlemen, you are not afraid to again face 
the weather, and brave a walk of a mile and a-half over a 
somewhat rough road, I shall be happy to act as your con- 
ductor to the “ Stack Light.” Poor Forbes and his mate 
lead but lonely lives, and will be overjoyed to receive com- 
pany especially at a season when, if possible, no man should 
be Mt lonely or isolated. Besides, I fancy that “ Christ- 
mas-Emin a Light-house ” will probably be a new experi- 
ence to all of you. The four expressed themselves as 
highly delighted to avail themselves of the good doctor’s 
offer, the prospect of adventure was a welcome one, so after 
a plentiful libation of brandy and water, of which the vil- 
lage JEsculapius sparingly partook, instant recourse was 
made to great coats and wrappers (ulsters were not then^ in 
vogue), when, just as all were equipped in marching 
order, the door opened and our friend, the inspector, 
entered followed by a quiet, reserved little man. who 
was introduced as Mr. Stent. On hearing of the pro- 
posed excursion, the two latter begged to be allowed to ac- 
company the party,— a request readily granted. So after 
leaving word with the railway official that they would re- 
turn in two hours, off they started. A glance at the sta- 
tion clock in the booking-office as they passed through 
showed that it was five minutes to eleven o’clock, so that 
by dint of rapid walking they could reach the “stack” by 
half -past. A shorter cut existed than that by the road, 
but the state of the weather utterly precluded its use. 


18 


Christmas- Em in a Lighthouse, 


Doctor Cuming led the way with a quick, powerful stride, 
and the rest followed in spite of the heavy storm of wind 
and snow with which they had to contend. After proceed- 
ing fully three-fourths of the whole distance a sudden turn 
in the road — which curved sharply round a spur of the 
cliff — brought them under the influence of a volume of 
light, so strong and powerful as to be almost blinding after 
the almost Cimmerian darkness through which they had 
come. This was the famous “ Stack Light,” so well known to 
every mariner who has crossed St. George’s Channel to or 
from Liverpool, and a few minutes longer walk sufficed to 
bring the party to the entrance. Ascending a short, wide 
stairway, our travellers found themselves in front of a 
massive door thickly studded with iron, which after a short 
parley was opened in answer to the Doctor’s knocks, 
and the visitors cordially invited to enter. On doing so 
they found themselves in a circular whitewashed apart- 
ment, plainly but comfortably furnished with a small 
centre table, chairs, kitchen utensils, and even a book 
case, which rested against the wall. A cheery Are 
burnt in an open stove, and a swing lamp stood on 
a bracket inserted in the wall, whilst a circular iron stair- 
case led from this apartment, through a series of 
others, to the summit of the lighthouse. The next 
above the lowest was the sleeping apartment of the 
two keepers, then the lamp-filling room, then the trimming 
room, and so on. The walls were so thick and massive as 
to almost entirely shut put the noise of the storm, and the 
first-feeling of the visitors was one of peace and security. 
The excitement of the trip had quite banished all desire (or 
sleep, so they eagerly acquiesced in the keeper s proposal, 
that they should inspect the lanterns, and, after disencum- 
bering themselves of their overcoats, up they went. It was 
a long, stiff pull to the top, but there was much of interest 
to be seen on the way, making the ascent gradual and easy. 
As for the lanterns, they were superb, and fully justified 
the enconiums lavished on them by Keeper Forbes, who 
seemed to bestow on them almost the affection of a parent. 
Bright and clear, they shone out the embodiment and im- 


Prologue — C hristTuas- Eve. 


19 


personation at once of warning and security. Many an 
anxious mother has had to thank these silent watchers, 
who never relax their vigilance for the life of her sailor 
boy off that wild coast, and many a manly heart has 
gazed upon them with feelings of devout thankfulness 
when safely riding out a December gale. Who has not 
read the touching story of Man’s fight with the Sea, 
on wild Eddystone, which is but a specimen of the 
brave old Saxon courage and persistence which have 
rendered America and Great Britain the nations they 
are to-day — On again descending into the lower room the 
keeper invited the visitors to be seated and produced sun- 
dry long bottles of suspicious appearance whilst a tea 
kettle sang merrily on the hob. 

The doctor was the first to break the silence. “ What do 
you think of the weather, friend Forbes ? Is it likely to 
clear?” “I don’t think so,” was the response, with the 
wind blowing from its present point, we are just as likely 
to have a continuance of the gale for hours yet.” If you 
wiU take an old sailor’s advice, gentlemen, you will rest 
content here until morning, when the weather may lift 
This hospitable offer was gratefully accepted and it was 
proposed by Stanton Bell that in order to while away the 
time each member of the party should relate some story of 
personal experience, with the only proviso that the narra- 
tor should confine himself to actual facts in which he him- 
self had a share. With the cordial assent, therefore, of the 
whole party, the major was asked to break the ice by lead- 
ing the way. 


20 


Christmas- Em in a Light-house. 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE MA joe’s STORY — HOW I WON MY WIFE. 

Is it hotter to pass Cliristmas in town or in the country ? 
Much may be said on both sides of the question, and it is 
very difficult to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion, but in 
spite of all the wondrous preparations which may be made 
in London to give King Christmas his fitting welcome, there 
is much to be said in favor of the country ; and, perhaps, 
nowhere observance is better done to his rites than in good 
old fashioned country houses, where a party, which would 
contrive to be merry under any circumstances, seize the 
excuse for the extra festivity which the season of the year 
affords. This was, at any rate, the custom at Plas Coed, 
an old house in North Wales, where occurred the events 
I am about to relate. 

A pleasanter breakfast-room than that at Plas Coed prob- 
ably does not exist in the kingdom, nor would it be easy to 
gather together a party better calculated to please and 
amuse themselves and each other than that which was 
seated round the table on the morning when my story 
opens. Assuredly I would not have changed my place on 
any consideration, seeing that, as usual, I had found a seat 
next to Nellie Stanyer, the elder daughter of our kind- 
hearted hostess. Perhaps this circumstance may have 
made the view from the windows even more exquisite than 
usual, though at any time it would have been hard to look 
without admiration over the tops of the splendid old trees 
clothing the sides of the hill at the summit of which the 
house stood. To the left is a mountainous country, pasture 
on some of the hills, others craggy and barren, but of 
noble outline : and to the right a glimpse of a few of the 
houses which are springing up rapidly at Llanormedd Bay, 
some two miles distant, and turning that pleasant retreat 
into a popular watering-place — ‘improving’ away all its 
beauty, and vulgarising even the magnilicent Rocky Head 
by making roads, round which the too-festive excursionists 
will dash and drive the miserable ponies which, for their 


The Major's Story. 


21 


sins, are here for hire. The authorities believe that the 
wild and romantic aspect of the place will be improved if 
they can manage to construct a tramway along the moun- 
tainside ! 

From Plas Coed, however, we only catch glimpses of the 
water, lit up occasionally by the gleams of a sun which is 
struggling to assert itself, and certainly distance, in this 
case, does lend enchantment to the view. ' 

‘Breakfast is ready,’ announces Annie Stanyer, a piquant 
little girl of sixteen. ‘Mr. Nuttall,’— to the popular 
dramatist of that name, who was standing at the window, 
gazing over to the Bay — ‘ are you building castles in the 
air ? ’ 

‘ Well, I was certainly looking for a rent in the clouds ; 
perhaps that’s the same thing,’ he answered, taking his 
seat. 

‘Don’t be brilliant before breakfast, Nuttall. Your 
stock of epigram and spontaneous repartee won’t last the 
day if you begin to fire it off so early,’ remarked Frank 
Hayton, a young novelist, who was just making a name. 

‘ What is to be done to-day \ ’ Mrs. Stanyer inquired. 
‘I shall drive into Llanormedd about eleven, if any one 
likes to go with me.’ 

‘ And the band will be playing in the Assembly Rooms,’ 
Annie Stanyer informed us, ‘ though I don’t know whether 
that’s much attraction. Mr. Nuttall says, “if music be 
the food of love,” lovers who listen to the Llanormedd 
band must suffer rather severely from indigestion.’ 

We honored the dramatist’s joke, and Hayton explained 
it at considerable length to Percy Hawthorn, a young 
dragoon of limited intelligence, who was reported to have 
been the originator of the criticism that he considered 
Hamlet ‘ a good play, only it was so deuced full of quota- 
tions.’ 

‘The doctors must do a good trade there, then,’ Hayton 
hazarded, ‘for I never saw so many young couples in 
various stages of the overpowering passion which conquers 
all things, though it is so usually at the seaside.’ 

‘Otia si tollas, periere Cupidinis arcus,’ muttered the 
Dean, who seemed to regret that he had found much leisure 


22 


ChTistmas-Em in a Light-house. 


in his youth, for Mrs. Dean was reported to have a temper. 
We, however, gave the girls a complimentary translation of 
Ovid’s somewhat unflattering proverb. 

‘ Whom do you think we saw yesterday ?’ Ethel Dyson 
asked. ‘ You remember taking us to see “ Twelfth Night,” 
Mrs. Stanyer ? The actor who played Sir Toby so cleverly 
was in the Assembly Rooms.’ 

‘Oh! I should so like to see him in real life,’ Annie 
Stanyer cried. ‘ Do you know him, Frank ? Is he nice ? ’ 

‘You talk about a low comedian as if he were a straw- 
berry cream,’ responded Hay ton, who was on sufiiciently 
intimate terms to tease the careless speaker. ‘ I have a 
very slight acquaintance with Mr. Melliship, and consider 
him to be amusing and agreeable one.’ 

‘ And that is being nice, and my one adjective is much 
more terse and expressive than your two,’ she answered 
with mock dignity. 

‘He’s rather an intimate friend of yours, isn’t he. Major,’ 
Nuttall asked me. 

‘Yes, I see a good deal of him in town,’ I replied; ‘ he’s 
a very good fellow.’ 

‘Would he like to see the place, do you think?’ Mrs. 
Stanyer asked, with her usual ready kindness. The 
grounds of Plas Coed, and certain old rooms in the house, 
are among the sights of the neighborhood, and visitors are 
admitted two days a week. ‘ Will you asK Mr. Melliship 
to come up and dine with us ? If you take the dog-cart 
you can bring him back.’ 

Annie Stanyer clapped her hands. ‘Oh, that will be 
amusing and agreeable,’ she exclaimed, making a little 
moue at Frank Hay ton, as she avoided her favorite phrase. 

Breakfast over, I was soon on the road to Llanormedd, 
and almost the first person I saw was Melliship, coming 
down the steps of the hotel. 

‘ What are you doing here ?’ I asked, as we shook hands. 

‘ Taking a rest,’ he answered. ‘ Rather out of sorts. I 
gave up my part to Clarkstone, and came here for quiet— 
of which there’s a good deal about here, by the way; in 
fact, “ in contempt of question,” it’s dull,’ 


The Major's Story. 


23 


‘ “ Visitors will find this a most agreeable winter resort, 
and in the constant round of entertainments provided, those 
who honor Llanormedd with their patronage can hardly 
fail — ,” I quoted. 

‘Yes, my dear fellow, I know. I’ve read that in the ad- 
vertisements.’ 

‘There’s a skating-rink,’ I remark. 

‘ Thank you, yes. When I want to break any limbs, I 
can do it more effectually off the rocks.’ 

‘ Go for a ride ? ’ I suggest. 

‘ Thank you again. I went; and what is very much more 
extraordinary, I came back again, though the animal I 
went on would make an excellent substitute for the rink or 
the cliffs as regards probabilities of damaging oneself. I 
noticed the brute looked about him as he was led out, and 
asked the hostler if he didn’t shy. “Noa, inteed, he was 
never shy” — here Melliship gave a laughably exact imita- 
tion of the Welshman’s manner of speaking — Inteed, he 
was look at things a little sometimes, sir.” However, I got 
on, and walked him cautiously out of the town. As soon 
as we turned out of the main road, the brute — well, I sup- 
pose it wasn’t shying., but he “looked at something,” so 
very rapidly made up his mind that he didn’t like it, and 
turned right round so very suddenly, that I didn’t care to 
interfere with his evident wish to go home. But what are 
you doing here. Major? I’m very glad that your’ e doing 
something, whatever it is.’ 

‘ I’m staying, on a visit,’ I answered. 

‘ Are you free to-day ! I want to go up to that old house 
in the distance. I’m told there’s a splendid view and some 
good pictures. Will you come? It’s open to visitors, 
isn’t it ?’ 

‘ It’s open to you. In fact, I drove into town on purpose 
to ask you to come and dine. That’s where I’m staying.’ 

‘ Bless you, very much. I will strive to bear up against 
separation from the band. We’ll away to the mountain s 
brow as soon as you like.’ 

. ‘How well the house looks from here,’ Melliship re- 
marked, as I turned the dog-cart off the highroad down the 


24 


Christmas-Eve in a Light-house. 


Plas Coed Lane. ‘ I never saw such high hedges, and the 
avenue must be magnificent when the leaves are on the 
trees. Shall I walk % This is a tremendous pull for the 
horse, up this hill.’ 

‘No, don’t trouble ; we get to smoother ground directly,’ 
I answered ; and we soon reached the doors. 

The men were shooting or riding, but a party of girls es- 
corted their guest to the picture-gallery and to the terrace 
at the end of the grounds. Annie Stanyer glanced furtively 
at Melliship now and tlien at first, and seemed surprised to 
find a quiet, gentlemanlike personage in place of the rol- 
licking Sir Toby she had seen at the theatre. The actor’ s 
quaint remarks soon established a feeling of intimacy on all 
hands, however, for laughter conduces to friendliness and 
ease more quickly than anything else ; and by dinner-time 
Melliship was firmly fixed in Annie’s good graces. Nuttall 
was on familiar terms with the actor, who, indeed, had done 
much to make the young author’s first comedy successful. 
Hay ton, as we have seen, knew him slightly, and he was 
soon at home among us. 

‘ Who was that odd-looking scoundrel— if he will permit 
me to call him so— that you were talking to, Stanyer, as I 
came up the avenue ? ’ Hay ton asked our hostess’ son as 
we sat down to table. 

‘That’s precisely the question I put to the odd-looking 
scoundrel, without gaining a very satisfactory answer. He 
said he was a “ pore man,” and he supposed he could walk 
along the road as well as anybody else. I told him that his 
supposition was incorrect, as the road was private ; and he 
lurched oh.’ 

‘ A person of rather disreputable appearance was sitting 
on agate, smoking, as I came by just now,’ I said. ‘He 
touched his hat and slouched away when he saw me. He 
looked rather like poaching.’ 

‘ Taffy was a thief,’ Nuttall quoted. ‘ Perhaps that’s it. 
I noticed the fellow as we passed, and, from the way he 
tried to appear at ease, one could see that he didn’t want to 
be observed.’ 

‘ “ Rien ii’empeche tant d’etre natiirel, que I’envie de la 
paroitre,” Rochefoucauld once said — a maxim which some 


The Major* s Story. 


25 


young members of your profession might advantageously 
ponder, Mr. Melliship,’ Hay ton observed. 

‘What does that mean, Hayton?’ inquired Hawthorn. 
‘I don’t understand French. I’m like that fellow with 
long hair in the play you were just talkijig about.’ 

‘ “I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that 
I have in fencing, dancing, and ” ’ 

‘^Hush !’ interrupted Nellie in a whisper, laying her hand 
on my arm. 

I turned to her, wondering what was the matter ; for we 
had been talking of the comedy whicli had been the chief 
success of the past season, and appropriate quotations from 
it, in the tone of the various characters who had played, 
were popular at Plas Coed. My wonder, however, was 
speedily satisfied. 

‘ As I had been speaking, the butler, a new servant whom 
I had not seen, had entered the room. He addressed his 
mistress, and I absolutely started with surprise, for his 
voice — a very peculiar one — was exactly the same in tone 
and accent as that of Morton, the actor who played Sir 
Andrew, and whom I was imitating. The others noticed it, 
as, indeed, no one could help doing, and Melliship looked 
up with open-mouthed astonishment. Then, of course, I 
comprehended Nellie’s action, and was grateful for being 
saved from the awkwardness which I should have felt. 

It need not be said that Sir Andrew was quoted no more 
till dinner was over ; but when the servants had left the 
room Nuttall spoke. 

‘How extremely odd! I never heard any voice like 
Mortan’s before. Your imitation is very good, Ponsonby, 
but that man’s speech is the absolute counterpart. May I 
ask what his name is, Mrs. Stanyer V 

‘His name is James Payne. His way of speaking re- 
minded me of some one, but I could not remember of whom 
until just as Major Ponsonby spoke. Paine has been away, 
and only returned this afternoon.’ 

Melliship was an excellent raconteur and vocalist, and 
when he saw how eagerly Annie Stanyer and her com- 
panions listened to everything he said of the strange world 


26 


Christmas-Exie in a Light-Tiouse. 


of whose customs they knew nothing, good-naturedly laid 
himself out to amuse ; and with anecdotes and songs the 
evening passed, and half-past eleven o’ clock came all too 
soon. 

‘Must you go? Will you order the dog-cart?’ said 
Mrs. Stanyer to her son. ‘It’s not late yet, you know, 
Mr. Melliship.’ 

But Melliship expressed his preference for walking. 

‘I’m sure you had better drive, Mr. Melliship,’ Annie 
said ; ‘ and then you can stay a little longer.’ 

‘ You are very good. Miss Annie.’ 

‘ Not a bit ! It’s all selfishness, because you are so kind 
to us,’ the little lady answered. 

‘The walk will be pleasant if Ponsonby will show me 
the way ; and it’s a terribly steep hill for a horse— to say 
nothing of the darkness.’ 

‘ If you had rather walk, then good night ; and I hope 
you will come and see your friend here whenever the 
attractions of Llanormedd are not too j)owerful,’ Mrs. 
Stanyer said. 

‘ Yes, do please come again very soon, Mr. Melliship,’ 
Annie added, shaking hands ; and, adieux made, we de- 
scended to the haU to wrap up before facing the cold night 
air. 

‘It’s chilly, after that hot room, isn’t it? And how 
dark— as black as pitch. Do you know the way ?’ Melli- 
ship asked, as we closed the door and stepped out into the 
darkness. 

‘Take hold of my arm, old fellow. It’s all right. I 
know every inch of the ground,’ I answered. ‘ Look out I 
Seven steps.’ 

‘I never saw anything so black. I shouldn’t have be- 
lieved that darkness could be so impenetrable. It’s lucky 
we did not drive. We should have broken the horse’s neck, 
and been upset into the bargain.’ 

‘Upset into the ditch, you mean; only we shouldn’t. 
It s often like this, and I’ve driven safely on as dark nights 
scores of times. Mind, here’s a gate ! Down here ; this is 
the steep hill.’ 


The Major's Story. 


27 


‘ What delightful people those are !’ Melliship said pres- 
ently, when he had grown a little accustomed to the road, 
and could think of something else. 

‘ It was very good of you to take such trouble to amuse 
them.’ 

‘My dear fellow, it’s a pleasure with people like that, 
who evidently don’ t ask an actor to their house and expect 
that he will play the fool to pay for the meat and drink he 
consumes. You know what North did at Richmond V 

‘No; what?’ 

‘ Why, some City man has a 'house there, and asked 
North to dine ; and he went down, and had a gorgeous 
feast, I suppose. After dinner the man who asked him said, 
“Now, would you give us one of your amusing recitations, 
Mr. North ?” and the wife wished him “to go through that 
funny scene where he’s hidden under the table and want’s 
to sneeze.” North rose, gravely bowed to the assemblage, 
put a couple of guineas on his dessert plate, and walked 
out.’ 

‘A very proper rebuke. Mind! another gate. Now 
we’re in the lane, and the turning to the right is the high- 
road. It will be late for Llanormedd when you get back.’ 

“ ‘ Not to be abed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and, 
diluculo surgere, thou know’st — ’ ” he quoted, and I 
replied : 

‘ “Nay, by my troth, I know not : but I know, to be up 
late, is to be up late.” ’ 

‘ “ A false conclusion ; I hate it as an unfilled can : to be 
up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early : so that, 
to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Does 
not our life consist of the four elements?” ’ 

‘ “’Faith, so they say ; but, I think, it rather consists of 
eating and drinking.” ’ 

‘ “Th’ art a scholar ; let us therefore eat and drink.” ’ 

‘ “ In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, 
when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians pass- 
ing the equinoctial of Queubus ; ’ twas very good, i’faith ! 
I sent thee sixpence for thy leman — hadst it ?” ’ 

‘ “ I did impeticos thy gratillity.”— Did you hear that?’ 
Melliship asked, breaking off the dialogue. 


28 • Christmas-Eve in a Light-house. 

‘ That ’ was a whistle, which seemed to come from the 
hedge a little behind us, and a response, or, at any rate, a 
second whistle, faint, but yet distinct, followed im- 
mediately. 

‘Is it a bird? Birds go to sleep before this. “Diana’s 
foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon,” 
don’t haunt these parts, do they ? ’ 

‘ I should imagine not. Their chances of finding citizens 
traveling with fat purses would be rather small.’ 

‘ Ah ! here’s the highroad. I can see well enough, and 
it’s almost straight. Don’t come any further — no, really, I 
won’t let you. Good-night ! good-night, Ponsonby ! You’ll 
be over to-morrow ? Look out for the poacher — perhaps it 
was he whistling. Good night !’ 

‘Good-night! Don’t get into the ditch,’ I said, and 
turned to go up the lane. Melliship’s words recalled to my 
recollection the rough who had been lounging about the 
place ; for such men as he were exceedingly rare visitors to 
such an out-of-the-way spot as Llanormedd. He was not a 
Welshman. However, the girls did not often go about 
without escort, though it might be as well to warn them. It 
so soon grows dark, I thought, and in this lane between the 
high hedges 

I stopped and pulled out my cigar-case. Just as I was in 
the act of striking a match something touched my arm. I 
turned hastily and saw a man by my side, while a second, 
I could dimly percieve, was crawling from out the hedge. 
My first thought was to knock«one down with my fist and, 
with a thick stick I carried, do what I could to break the 
head of the other as he was rising from the ditch ; but be- 
fore I could make out whether it was one of the keepers or 
a servant, the first man spoke : 

‘Jim,’ he said, ‘I heard your rum old cackle as you 
passed down the lane. It’s a little earlier than you said. 
Who was the cove with you ?” 

It was evident the fellow mistook me for somebody else, 
and equally evident that his intentions were amicable. But 
for whom ? And what could he mean by talking of my 
‘rum old cackle?’ Stay! As I passed along I had been 


The Majofs Story. 


29 


imitating Sir Andrew ; Melliship and I had, indeed, an- 
swered each other and kept up the dialogue for some time. 
And Jim ? James Paine was the name of the new butler 
whose voice so exactly resembled the actor of the famous 
role from which I had been reciting. Clearly, these strange 
personages imagined that they were talking to the butler, 
with whom it would seem that they had made an appoint- 
ment. 

These thoughts flashed through my mind in a second, and 
as quickly I resolved on doing nothing to disturb the 
delusion. 

‘ He’s a groom at a house near here. Came up to see one 
at the stables,’ I answered, adopting the voice which my 
companion had stigmatized. 

‘And it’ll do to-night, you think ? ’ 

Now ‘it’ is a pronoun of very wide significance; and 
seeing that I had not the slightest idea of the word for 
which it stood, the question was a puzzler. Only one thing 
was palpable — something was wrong ; and the advisability 
of knocking my interrogator on the head, and giving such 
alarm as I could, again suggested itself strongly. Before I 
could determine on any course, the man continued 

‘No good waiting?’ 

‘Don’t see why you should,’ I replied, with increasing 
wonder as to what it all meant. 

‘ David’ s got the tools ; though it’s a pity you couldn’t 
find the key of that^safe in the library. Through the 
servants’ hall is the best way, is it ? I went up to try 
and get a look to-day when I thought them young fellows 
was all at their shooting, but one of ’em came up and 
was nasty.’ 

Little power of guessing was required to tell what this 
meant. Through the servants’ hall to the library, and in 
the absence of the key, David— whom I presumed to be 
the furtive rascal who had crawled from the ditch and only 
indicated his presence by occasional grunts — had got the 
tools. This meant burglary ; and as it happened, and as 
Paine probably knew, there was prospect of rich plunder, 
for Mrs. Stanyer’s jewels and much plate, generally left at 


30 


Christmas-Ene in a Light-house. 


their English house, had this year been brought to Wales. 
But I had a question to answer, and now entered heart and 
soul into the nefarious schemes of my strange associates. 

‘ Yes, that’s best. But don’t come too soon. The young 
fellows are smoking. You’ll see when the lights are put 
out, then wait about an hour, or at least until I show a 
candle three times,’ I replied. 

‘All right! But how do you mean? Take this bull’s- 
eye, that’ll be better.’ And David handed me a lantern. 

‘ I must be getting back, or else they’ll miss me.’ 

‘ Very well ; and we’ll get up to the shrubbery opposite 
the house. Hush I —what’s that ?’ 

Jim Paine coming down, I feared, to spoil the plot I had 
been concocting. 

‘Get into the hedge, and don’t come out, whatever you 
hear, for the next half-hour, ’ I whispered ; and set off to 
the house at my best pace, as David and the other, whose 
name I had not heard, scrambled through the hedge again. 

It took me only a very few minutes to reach the house 
and rush into the brightly-lighted smoking-room — dazzling 
to the eyes after my excursion in the dark. The men 
were lounging in easy attitudes, with tall tumblers at their 
elbows. 

‘Hallo! what’s the matter ? You look as if you’d been 
running a race with a ghost ! ’ Huttall exclaimed. 

‘Let me prescribe soda and brandy,’ Stanyer said. 

‘ Is Paine in the house ? Quick— tell me ! ’ 

‘ Yes — if he hasn’t just gone out. He’s forgotten to take 
some wine my mother told him to leave at the keeper’s 
cottage,’ Stanyer answered. 

‘He must not leave the house on any account. Excuse 
me. I’ll explain directly. Call him back— run after him !’ 
I urged. 

‘Why, my dear fellow! why mayn’t William Evans’ 
wife have her port wine ? ’ 

‘ Don’t stop and talk, Stanyer. Pray do as I ask.’ 

‘ Paine ! ’ he called out, opening the door — ‘ Paine ! ’ 

I followed Stanyer across the hall, the outer door of which 
the butler— who must have heard himself called— was open- 
ing, his great coat on, and a basket in his hand. 


T7ie Majors Story. 31 

‘ Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t hear 
you.’ 

‘ Come into this room, Ponsonby wishes to speak to you.’ 

‘ My mistress particularly wished,’ the man began, follow- 
ing us back to the smoking-room. 

‘ Never mind that, for a moment.’ What is it, major?’ 

‘ I want you to forbid that man to leave the house to- 
night,’ I said. 

‘ He’s only just going down to the cottage. Evans’ wife 
is ill, and he’s forgotten to take some wine and jelly to 
her.’ 

The men looked on with wonder, and Paine, though the 
twitching of his face showed that he was in dread, put on 
as placid an expression as possible. 

‘Yes, my mistress particularly wished the wine to be 
taken, and I’m sure she will be very angry if it does not go 
to-night.’ 

‘What’s it all about, Ponsonby? Why shouldn’t he 
go ? ’ Stanyer asked. 

‘ Because he has an appointment in the lane with two 
ruffians who are coming up to rob the house to-night,’ Ire- 
plied. 

The auditors sprang to their feet. 

‘ What ! ’ cried Stanyer, in extreme amazement. ‘ Oh, 
nonsense, my dear fellow ! How do you know ? ’ 

Paine looked round for a moment to the door, but Haw- 
thorn and some of the rest were behind him. Escape was 
impossible, and so he spoke with well-assumed calmness: 

‘ It’s worse than nonsense, sir, to take away a man’s 
character. I’ve lived in several places, and no one ever 
dared to say ’ 

‘ Talking will do you no good,’ I said. ‘ As I passed up 
the lane, two fellows jumped from the hedge and called me 
“Jim.” Melliship and I had been speaking the dialogue 
of “ Twelfth Night ; ” my imitation of Morton sounded like 
this fellow’s voice, and, in the dark, they took me for him. 
If you lock him up in a cellar, and put a good guard on 
him, we shall catch the other two.’ 

Some of the other servants, greatly surprised at the ap- 


32 


Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 


pearance of things in general, were speedily forthcoming ; 
and Paine, who perceived the futility of denial was escorted 
to safe quarters. 

‘My dear Ponsonby, I don’t know what to say to you. 
How extremely lucky that you should have hit on this vil- 
lainous plot. 

‘There’s more to be done yet, however, though I don’t 
anticipate much trouble. Put out the lights first of all. 
When Mr. Paine’s friends make their rather unseasonable 
call, they propose to come in through the servants’ hall ; 
so we’ll go and wait for them there. We mustn’t make a 
noise, though they won’t be here for nearly an hour,’ I said, 
as we made our way to the hall and cautiously felt about 
in the dark for seats. 

Time seemed to pass very slowly, but at length the mo- 
ment for my first — and, I hope, last — participation in a 
burglary arrived, and, hushing for silence, I turned the 
bull’s-eye three times on the window. 

‘Be ready, ’I whispered to my friends, who, however, 
were sufficiently on the alert. ‘ Hush !’ 

A faint tap was heard on the other side of the glass. I 
drew up the blind and opened the window cautiously. 

‘Is it all right;’ a gruff voice inquired as softly as it 
could. 

‘ Quite ! ’ I answered, helping the speaker through the 
window and then, bidding him stand quite still, performing 
a like office for David. 

‘Just give us the least speck of gas if it’s all right. 
Then we shan’t knock anything over and make a row, and 
we can find the way if we have to run for it — though I sup- 
pose you’ve took care,’ the man murmured. 

‘I’ve taken every possible precaution, I assure you,’ I 
answ^ered, applying a match to the burner over my head. 

In a moment the scene was revealed, and the astonish- 
ment on the faces of the newcomers, as they stood with 
open eyes and mouths, was so intense that there was no 
room for a look of rage. Instead of the solitude so neces- 
sary to the operations of which they were professors, they 
found themselves surrounded by seven wary young men. 


The Managing-Clerk' s Story. 


33 


The cliances of escape were small, and their eyes were ob- 
viously searching for the unfortunate Jim. For a moment 
none spoke ; and then, with muttered imprecation, the 
chief of the treacherous twain turned, and strove to reach 
the window. But I had taken the precaution of closing it ; 
and whilst, with Stanyer’s assistance, I slipped a rope 
round the arms of the first robber. Hawthorn and Hayton 
safely secured the astonished David. 

How Jim Paine and his friends were tried and con- 
demned need not be told in detail. Nellie Stanyer, prefer- 
ring to regard as wisdom and adroitness what was really 
the result of chance, consented to bestow upon me the 
privilege of guarding her from robbers, and such of the 
other ills which flesh is heir to as may be averted’ by a hus- 
band’ s care — a happy result which was owing in part to my 
lucky imitation. 

The major’s story was vociferously applauded, and after 
a general replenishing of glasses and relighting of pipes and 
cigars, a.nother volunteer was called for and was speed- 
ily found in the person of Harry Marston, who at once en- 
gaged the attention of his auditors by relating the follow- 
ing interesting reminiscence : 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MANAGING CLERK’s STORY — “A DELICATE MISSION.” 

“At the time I introduce myself to you, I, Harry 
Marston, son and heir of Henry Marston, of Holber Holt, 
Leicestershire, was an undergraduate of Christchurch, Ox- 
ford, of three years’ standing, spending his ‘ long ’ vacation 
with his uncle, his mother’s brother, Mr. Smith Pentland, 
solicitor. The Close, Southwich. I had many other re- 
latives,especially on my father’s side; but none of them had 
so much of my respect as this provincial lawyer with more 
than a provincial reputation. I don’t boast of it, for I have 
not seen many men who could afford to look down upon 


34 Christmas- Em in a Light-house. 

Smith Pentland ; I have seen as few who ventured to do it. 
To bring one proof of his superiority — he had to meet the 
clever man’s supreme difficulty of bearing with incompe- 
tence, and he subdued it thoroughly. 

Nevertheless, where he saw youth, and health, and in- 
tellect — it was his theory that opportunity should be meas- 
ured apart — he was not easy to satisfy : the idle found him 
a hard taskmaster. In these respects my lYicle was fairly 
content with me, but he was one of those who love to resort 
to argument for the sake of discovering what their opponent 
is made of. I am saying nothing for or against the prac- 
tice, simply that he followed it. And a favorite course 
with him was to challenge us university men. 

‘The question is, are you not specialties?’ he said, one 
day over our after-dinner wine. 

You may picture my uncle a fine old figure, with great 
ridges of brows below an abundance of white hair, refined, 
almost gentle eyes, but marked caustic mouth, with some- 
what large lips. There were those who went in fear of my 
uncle’s sarcasm, but they did not fare best with him. ‘ The 
question is, are not you specialties ?’ 

‘Now you have put a hard case, sir,’ said I. ‘ Because 
although it is not the truth, it is next to it. To my mind 
no man is more capable than your better sort of college 
man.’ 

‘ That is, put your college man into an unusual and diffi- 
cult position, he will come out of it more creditably than 
your ordinary man.’ 

‘ I think so, sir.’ 

‘ It is contrary to the received notions, Harry.’ 

‘ But I do think it’ 

It was one pleasant feature in my uncle’s intercourse 
with young men, that he treated them as possibly his 
equals in intelligence, if not in judgment. And this with- 
out at all risking his dignity. The consequence was that 
young men tried to talk up to him. 

‘ Seriously, don’ t you think you are too finished an article 
for common uses ? I have my doubts of you, Harry, al- 
though my own boy is just going to Cambridge.’ 


The Managing-ClerTc^ s Story. 


35 


‘ I wish you could put one of us on his trial,’ I said, not 
consenting to his opinion. ‘Me, since no one else offers.’ 

‘ I’ll take you at your word, Harry,’ said my uncle, sud- 
denly. ‘ Mind — if you don’ t wish to do what I ask, say so ; I 
shall respect your scruples. I want you to go to a gentle- 
man’s house in the neighborhood — it is just the case you 
desire, that I should make a real use of you— and take an in- 
ventory of the property on his premises.’ 

There is no doubt I was a great deal dismayed— my uncle’s 
unusual and difficult position had certainly not taken this 
form to my mind. 

‘ He is in a degree a friend of mine ; but what more influ- 
ences me, he is a great friend of great friends of mine. One 
of these will advance him money for present necessities, but 
requires a bill of sale on his furniture and horses and car- 
riages as security. It is to be arranged for as early and 
privately as possible. Now there is not a clerk in my office 
I can trust as I ought to be able to trust you. My clerks 
contract a habit of reticence, I know, but they are as likely 
as not to betray that their errand is something sinister and 
unusual in their very effort not to do so. In fact, if a gen- 
tleman were to be found for such work, he is what is wanted. 
And you say college men are so capable my uncle push- 
ing back his chair, and looking sharply at me as he ceased 
speaking. 

‘ You would like me to undertake it?’ said I, dubiously. 

‘ If you would, you see me out of a difficulty. However, 
if you at all object, there’s an end. I’m thinking for the 
ladies of Mr. Guest’s family mostly. You wouldn’t, you 
know, want to mention your relationship to me or anything 
of that sort : you may not even see any of the family — al- 
though, honestly, I think you will.’ 

In spite of what he said about there being an end to it if 
I objected, yet, as he went on enumerating the fors and 
againsts, I saw which way his wishes tended. Besides, it 
struck me half the trial might be in seeing whether I could 
overcome my reluctance. So I made up my mind. 

‘ Well, I will do my best, sir. To-morrow, do you say ? I 
suppose its chairs and tables I’m to value. How am I to 


36 Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 

know what to call ’em,’ and I laughed without much satis- 
faction ; ‘ or whether they be worth shillings or pounds ?’ 

‘As to calling them,’ said my uncle, looking pleased, 
‘there’ll be a list there ready for you. Your aunt and Flo 
might initiate you into prices — an evening’s amusement 
provided for you all !’ 

That seemed likely to be the only agreeable item in the 
account. Florence kindly took a great deal of the burden 
off her mother, and we two made famous progress — consid- 
ering a chronic flirtation between us of some years’ standing. 

However, next morning, when fairly started behind a good 
horse for my twelve miles’ drive to Cullerton House, affairs 
took a different complexion. The business itself did not 
trouble me much : what I did not know I could arrive at 
by audacious guessing, and reference to Florence on my 
return. For the rest, was I not to demonstrate the capa- 
bility of the Oxford man by the very fact of my tutored 
ability to carry off awkward circumstances \ On my arrival 
at Cullerton House, a place of some pretensions, I sent in 
my card and a note my uncle had written, speaking of me 
as a gentlemen whom he employed confidentially. Waiting 
in a well-lined [library for further directions, with a new 
sense of strangeness to such a place, I smilingly recurred to 
my uncle’s advice not to go quite as for a morning call. 
By-and-by Mr. Guest made his appearance, very hurried 
and embarrassed. 

‘Mr. Marston, I believe,’ referring to my card, which he 
held in his hand. ‘ Come upon— ah— Mr. Smith Pentland’s 
business.’ I bowed. ‘How would it do to begin here at 
once ?’ he went on to say, with the air of a man screwing up 
his courage to taking the first uncomfortable header, but 
only equal as yet to dabbling in the water. ‘ It may be as 
well to— exercise a little artifice. You are waiting for me 
here, you— ah— understand. And if the servants come 
in ’ 

‘ There is oc^pationfor some minutes of waiting on these 
shelves, sir,’ siad I, gravely. 

‘ Exactly, Mr. Marston. Then here is a list for your guid- 
ance. I will return in a few minutes.’ And to get himself 


The Managing-Cleric* s Story. 


37 


out of the room so quickly appeared an almost astounding 
relief to him. Completely beaten though he was by the 
present humiliating situation, one could see that by nature 
he was arrogant and somewhat overbearing. I could well 
understand what my uncle spoke of as Mr. Guest’s perfect 
inability to keep within his income ; for to him the small 
but very necessary economies of life would jjrobably seem 
paltry and degrading. However he had bought a contrary 
experience, and was now paying for it. 

We young fellows are more apt at detecting the absurdi- 
ties than the hardships of such situations, and only behave 
well about them because, as men of the world, we do not, 
in our phraseology, go in for the embarrassing. But in 
rather an odd way I was to feel the pathos also. In going 
through the list prepared for me, I could not fail to perceive 
here and there a blotch of ink, hinting very sensibly at 
tears spent in the writing. It was the work of a lady — one 
of the Guests themselves probably. Should I see her \ and 
how would she take it? Was anything to be made out 
from her workmanship ? I set myself to examine it, but 
whether or not I have small penetration into character, it 
told me little. There was clear arrangement certainly, and 
completeness, if that went any way— and it did when one 
thought also of the blurred ink spots. 

Voices outside warned me to put an end to my specula- 
tions, and make haste to be ready for Mr. Guest’s return, 
which was only a degree less flurried than his first entrance. 

M think, Mr. Marston, if you would follow a plan ’ 

Which plan, unfolded with much hesitation and diffusive- 
ness, had evidently been prepared for him outside. 

It was that luncheon should be ready in an hour in the 
dining-room. Mr. Guest was meanwhile to conduct me 
upstairs, as if for a little attention to my toilet after my 
journey. ‘ And don’t you think you might jot down some 
of the articles in the hall as I stand with the door open ; 
yes, so.’ You may imagine the figure we made. ‘ And 
the rest you can carry in your mind as you pass through. 
A very handsome bird, as you remark, and well stuffed.’ 
We were now in the hall and a servant was passing. ‘ J ohn. 


38 


Christmas- Elbe in a Light-house. 


are the ladies in the breakfast-room % Come, and be intro- 
duced to my daughters, Mr. Marston.’ 

I could see that this, done the more effectually to mystify 
the servant, was bitterer work than any. He betrayed it 
by the very sharpness of tone, momentary as it was, in 
which he immediately after furnished me with certain in- 
formation — as if to warn me not to jjresume upon an intro- 
duction that could not be avoided, but which went for 
nothing in the ordinary sense. I dare say the cautious, 
almost shy circuit my eyes made of the room and its in- 
mates was ascribed by Mr. Guest to my sufficient sense of 
all this. Miss Alice Guest, the younger of the two ladies 
of the family, was sitting in a spiritless attitude by the fire: 
Miss Guest herself, a girl of about twenty, was writing at 
the table. And, although there were traces of tears on her 
face, and she could not help looking downcast, yet she 'was 
sufficiently composed to think for the best, and try to be 
conciliatory, as the most politic course. She was not quite 
pretty, but altogether nice; had nice soft, gentle ways— 
which did not in the least prevent her, as I was not long in 
finding out, from being the ruling power in the house. 
Indeed, with no one else did there seem to remain any judg- 
ment or endeavour. I felt for her very keenly when, upon 
her father appealing to her for the explanation of some- 
thing in the inventory not quite clear to either of us, she 
came across to us and pointed out what we required quite 
patiently and intelligently, although all the while her poor 
hand trembled so that she could scarce turn over the leaves. 
I very much liked the kind, honest eyes that met mine in a 
momentary glance. I very much wished they had been 
less troubled. 

And I decidedly wished myself well out of the room long 
before I had finished. The father was querulous, yet de- 
precatory ; the girls sat on in an awkward silence. A 
young fellow of about eighteen looked in at the door , his 
father’s introduction drew from him a stiff, hostile bow; 
turning on his heel he went out, closing the door with a 
bang : there was a dull anger shown towards me by all — by 
all except Miss Guest. I grew to feel almost as if the 


39 


The Managing-Clerk’’ s Story. 

aggression was mine ; I said within myself that whilst my 
nncle had undoubtedly acted wisely and kindly by the 
Guests, he had not shown much consideration for me. 
True, he had professed to make it entirely optional, but 
then 

Going through with Mr. Guest’s programme, I reached 
the dining-room and luncheon. 

‘ Now do, Dick,’ I heard Miss Guest say, from outside 
the door. ‘He is very well, indeed he is. It can’t hurt 
you to sit down to luncheon with him. It’s because of the 
servants, you know. Do it to please me, Dick. I don’t, 
want you to talk if you can’t, she added coaxingly — com- 
ing in as she spoke ; Dick treating me to his anathemas 
pretty freely as he followed her. 

The color flew into her face at sight of me, for certainly 
she had not meant me to be of her audience. I was 
sorely tempted to carry it with a high hand towards Mr. 
Dick, but I kept before me the especial reason of my uncle’s 
choice, and recovered myself in time. I readily forgave 
him when I heard, as I did afterwards, that he was expect- 
ing his commission, when this unfortunate crisis in his 
father’s affairs put off his expectations indeflnitely ; even 
if worse did not follow. It was natural he should confound 
me with his misfortune. The younger sister did not show 
herself. ‘Alice has the headache, papa,’ said Miss Guest, 
in answer to her father, as he too joined us. I guessed 
that I had as much to do with her absence as any indispo- 
sition. 

But we had not taken our seats when a carriage rolled 
up the drive. ‘ Miss Bailey, papa ! ’ Miss Guest exclaimed. 

‘ She will have been into Lorton, and of course has come on 
here knowing it to be our luncheon hour.’ 

I quite understood their involuntary glances at me, and 
felt it incumbent on me to offer to retire. I offered to do 
so in so many words, without any preamble or reason 
alleged other than the real one. 

‘ Certainly not,’ she said, with the essential politeness of 
a kind nature. ‘We could not think of it.’ I still pro- 
fessed my willingness. 


40 


Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 


‘ It would be rude, and it would not be preferable even,’ 
she replied, smiling a little, her straight:forwardness equal 
to my own. Well, it is the irresistible tendency, where it 
is young men and women who are concerned, for these 
things to become directly personal. 

‘True there are the servants,’ said Mr. Guest, with an ir- 
ritable glance in survey of me, fretting his hands neiwously 
one within the other. ‘ And Miss Bailey won’t see much in 
our having a— stranger to luncheon.’ Words that could 
not have been better framed to lack the genuineness and 
spontaneousness of his daughter’s reply. 

Miss Guest’s first alarmed exclammation was justified. 
Miss Bailey had. calculated upon the luncheon hour, and 
besides developing a very fair appetite for the material vi- 
ands set before us, also developed a quite remarkable crav- 
ing after what ladies term ‘ news.’ ‘Well, Frances, what’s 
the news?’ was nearly her first question. 

Miss Guest colored as she professed her ignorance — prob- 
ably thinking, it struck me, what the answer to-morrow 
might well be. So Miss Bailey proceeded herself to impart 
sundry intelligence, in which Miss Guest, carrying oflt her 
secret trouble bravely (she could not keep back a little 
pre-occupied sigh now and then), feigned much interest ; 
satisfied so that her father was not called upon. We ap- 
peared to be successfully tiding over the mal- apropos visit, 
until, as luck would have it, the lady’s inquisitiveness was 
directed towards me. Then I quite laid for everything to 
come to grief. 

‘ Ah, I suppose, Mr. Marston, you are a stranger to this 
part of the country?’ said she, catching quickly at words 
that implied as much. She was what I call a dreadful 
woman ; well preserved, fifty or so, with a face placid yet 
shrewish ; smiling benevolently on you with her eyes, but 
her mouth in contradiction. 

I said I did not know much of the country. ‘ But perhaps 
you mean to get acquainted with it? Perhaps you are 
thinking to settle down amongst us ?’ 

I said I was simply on a visit, and Miss Guest contrived 
to get the conversation into a different channel— but not for 
long. 


The Managing-Cleric’s Story. 


41 


‘You find the air keen here, don’t you, Mr. Marston?’ 
said Miss Bailey, upon a discussion of the weather giving 
her an opening. ‘I’m sure I did. But then I’m a native 
of Devonshire, and you may come from northward.’ 

I wished Devonshire had kept her, as I said that, on the 
contrary, I had always lived more to the south. 

‘ In London, perhaps ?’ 

‘Bless the woman !’ I thought. ‘I’ll try the truth — if 
that will stop her.’ Hesitating a moment between Leices- 
tershire and Oxford, I chose the latter. As it turned out, 
an unfortunate choice. 

‘At the university? Ah! At which college would it 
be ? Christchurch ? ah ! She had a nephew, such a dear 
fellow, but he was at Brasenose. Did I know him ! — Daw- 
son, Frank Dawson? No, I didn’t! Well, perhaps she 
might be able to bring about an acquaintance. Oh, Fran- 
ces ?’ turning to Miss Guest. ‘ Alice Dawson has had the 
sweetest photograph taken.’ 

‘Has she?’ said Miss Guest, with the slightest drooping 
of the eyelids. 

‘ Oh, the most charming portrait !’ blandly beaming on 
us all. ‘You have not seen my niece, Mr. Marstou— my 
niece, Alice Dawson, dear Frank’s sister? She was stay- 
ing at Southwich a month ago. If you were riding or driv- 
ing Harford way, and looked in on my little snuggery, I 
might, now, be able to give you an introduction.’ 

Through all this questioning and my corresponding 
answers — for, once brought to book, I had plunged boldly 
in medias res, and talked Oxford to any extent, as deem- 
ing the truth safest, from being least open to suspicion on 
either side — as it went on from one assertion to an- 
other, Miss Guest’s eyes had opened wider and wider, and 
even young Dick was roused from his moodiness. For 
all their caution, I caught them signalling their amaze- 
ment at my audacity to each other with their eyes and, I 
thought, also the relief my ingenuity, playing on Miss 
Bailey’s credulity, brought them. But when it came to 
the proffered introduction, acconfpanied by all Miss Bail- 
ey’s reserve of blandness, I thought they certainly must 


42 


CTiristmas-Em in a Light-Jiouse. 


have exploded with laughter ; the better I kept my coun- 
tenance the more I tried their gravity. As for Mr. Guest, 
he looked the reverse of amiable over what he took to be 
my effrontery. At length Miss Bailey proposed departure. 
They all accompanied her to the carriage, but whilst Mr. 
Guest remained for a parting word or two, Miss Guest and 
Dick made a speedy escape back into the hall. Chancing 
to be near the door, I had the fortune a second time to 
overhear them. 

‘ Oh, Dick ! ’ said she. 

‘ Oh, Fanny ! ’ and they went off into suppressed laugh- 
ter, one against the other. 

‘ Did you ever hear a chap cram like him ? ’ said Dick, 
suspending his laughter only for the words. 

‘ Dear Frank ! ’ said she, as soon as she could get breath. 

‘ And dear Frank’s sister? But don’t let us be stopping 
here.’ And giving themselves a minute to recover them- 
selves they came in. 

I purposely caught Dick’s eye, and he walked to the 
window as the sole resource against a second explosion ; 
for being, as you will have observed, a young fellow quick 
to stand upon his dignity, of course he could not willingly 
demean himself to exchange mirth’with a common clerk ! 
But kind, thoughtful Miss Guest, quick to believe 
that kinduess was meant, could not let it pass without 
an acknowledgment of my good nature and promptness to 
avoid embarrassment for them. And she knew well, none 
better, how to thank without admitting too much. I felt it 
some return for the inevitable disagreeables of my work 
only to have had it in my power to put her in so much bet- 
ter spirits ; this was just what her fine insight taught her, 
and by what she emphasized her thanks. She asked if she 
could be of any assistance quite cheerfully, and even con- 
versed upon general topics a little. She only ventured on a 
passing allusion to my daring inventions— for as such she 
wholly regarded them— I was half sorry to know it— from 
beginning to end— over the luncheon-table, and that of the 
demurest. 

' You appear, Mr. Marston, to be quite familiar with Ox- 


The Managing -Cleric s Story. 


43 


ford ; even more so than with Southwich.’ And in spite 
of herself, a smile lurked somewhere about her pleasant 
face. 

‘ I — I — in fact, Miss Guest, I — I was apprenticed at 
Oxford.’ 

When I came to this point in telling the day’s proceed- 
ings to my uncle, he laughed ten minutes off, and then ad- 
mitted that I had extinguished him. ‘ As of course I 
should,’ I affirmed. ‘Merely from the result of a high- 
class education — which would, as a plain fact capable of 
being argued, be a recurrence to first principles and the 
simplest tactics.’ When my uncle informed me my assur- 
ance, as he was pleased to call it, wanted no further elabo- 
rating. 

I achieved my reply to Miss Guest in my gravest manner ; 
but she turned away, biting her lip, and, I could see, 
doubted my gravity, just as I had detected the arriere 
pensee in hers. I was strongly impelled to disclose the 
whole truth about myself, but the fear of compromising 
Mr. Smith Pentland restrained me until Mr. Guest and dis- 
cretion entered together. 

So I brought my business to a conclusion, and I drove 
away from Cullerton House and the Guests, feeling that I 
had also brought to a conclusion a strange experience for 
which nothing certainly in my life had prepared me, which 
branched off from it in an odd sort of way, without any 
kind of connection with it other than the slight accident of 
Mr. Smith Pentland’ s unpremeditated request, and which 
had at once passed into the catalogue of simple remem- 
brances. , 

True, after I left Southwich I once or twice made in- 
quiries for the Guests in my letters to my uncle. But the 
subject was no longer interesting after he wrote that there 
had been a revival in their fortunes — an old maiden aunt — 
some relative or other, dying and leaving them no end of 
a fortune. ‘And,’ said my uncle, ‘to see Mr. Guest was 
enough to know that no odor of impending bankruptcy 
came now between the wind and his nobility.’ My few 
hours’ acquaintance with the gentleman taught me all that 


44 


Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 


my uncle would convey, and I was confirmed in my first 
reading of his character. 

Christmas came, and was, as in duty bound, spent in 
the home at Holber Holt. We had an excessively good 
time of it ; such a good, jolly time that nothing short of the 
wedding of my great chum, Tom Stopford, and the posi 
tive necessity he laid on me of acting as his best man, could 
have induced me to quit home for the Spotford’s place in 
Sussex. Once at Hetton Park I found myself involved in 
festivities of a week’s duration. These over, my return was 
still further delayed, because the good faith of Tom’s 
brother Bob was — at least he said it was— implicated in the 
securing me for a grand ball that was to come olf at Grill 
Hall — the residence of some new comers to that part of the 
county, whose favor Bob evidently sought. They had only 
not been of the company at Hetton because they were from 
home at the time. Prom what I heard on different sides, 
the Masons were city people, very rich, and without chil- 
dren. But the attraction for Bob, and others of the fellows 
as well, was certain two fair nieces whom they had met at 
Grill during the shooting season, and who were again the 
Masons’ guests. The brother had also lately joined Bob’s 
regiment. For Bob was in a crack cavalry regiment, and 
spent every farthing of his allowance and probably some- 
thing over. 

Poor Bob was very spooney and made me his confidant. 
He used to moralize frightfully, with a comic face, but not 
quite taking it all the same. ‘Pm a younger son, Marston, 
and younger sons don’t go down with mamas and aunts — 
especially where there’s money. Hang money, I say ! 
There’s Tom’s wife, as jolly a little girl as ever a fellow 
wants to pet him and think him perfection. Would she 
have fallen in love with me? Not she. And yet she isn’t 
a bit in the world mercenary. She wouldn’ t have been 
allowed.^ my dear fellow. It is all managed for them. Oh, 
women are kittle cattle to deal with.’ And Bob’s weed 
went out of the window, and we sat on in a rather senti- 
mental silence. 

‘So, as I said before, if you’U accept the Mason’s invita- 


The Managing -Cleric^ s Story. 


45 


tion, you do me a kindness,’ lie continued, as soon as he 
could descend to practical matters. ‘ You are credited 
with being a catch in the matrimonial market, and we 
younger sons are only looked pleasant upon when we have 
bigger fish in tow. Mrs. Mason was proudly pleased when 
she saw a possibility of getting Mr. Harry Marston. She 
doesn’t fall into ecstacies, you know — quite goes in for the 
refined style of thing. But she’s the deuce and all to come 
at. It was grand, I assure you, quite grand, to see how 
she manoeuvred for Frank Carpenter, the swell who mar- 
ried old Mason’ s niece. These girls belong to her own peo- 
ple. Come, say you will go 1 ’ 

Seeing that a frost had set in, to the probable stoppage 
of all hunting for some days, and that I had still a fort- 
night of my vacation before me, I said that I would do the 
obliging and stay for the ball. Only he wasn’t to make a 
fool of himself. 

‘Don’t you, that’s all,’ exclaimed the wildly grateful 
dragoon. ‘ But, I say, do any amount of flirting with all 
or any, only don’t cut me out with Alice.’ 

‘How am I to know which is Alice? They don’t go 
about labelled, do they ? ’ 

‘ She’s the younger. Besides she’s — oh, so much the 
prettier !’ 

‘ Very well, then, if I ’ 

‘ Shut up now, will you ? ’ said he, fetching me a tremen- 
dous blow in the back, in apprehension of my chaff. 

We were late in reaching Grill on the night of the ball, 
and dancing had commenced. When Bob took me up to 
Mrs. Mason I felt convinced I must have seen that lady be- 
fore, so familiar to me seemed her well-formed features and 
stately carriage. As Bob had predicted, she was very 
gracious and kept me in conversation until the conclusion 
of the dance in progress when we entered, when she offered 
to find me partners. And if there was manoeuvring in it 
at aU, it was very skillful, for she was careful to introduce 
me to three or four of the prettiest girls in the room, and 
only finished with her eldest niece. 

Radiant from an unburdened heart although she was, 


46 Christmas -JEm in a Light-house. 

bright and beautiful as, say what you like, good fortune 
will make people, yet I knew her on the instant. The 
broad forehead, the good honest eyes, the sonsie face, I 
could not mistake ; although there were jewels now in the 
fair hair, and every circumstance was so contrasted. And 
she knew me. 

‘ Mr. Marston — Miss Guest — ’ Mr. Mason called his wife’s 
attention from us, and so, perhaps fortunately, the surprise 
of recognition on Miss Guest’s side, and the surprise and 
confusion on mine escaped her notice. 

In a sort of desperation of embarrassment I asked for the 
next quadrille, and she, in equal bewilderment, assented. 
But as the minutes gave her a better comprehension, she 
clearly came quite to expect me to withdraw from the 
position. However I stood my ground doggedly, half re- 
senting it, although she, of course, could only think me 
guilty of an unwarrantable breach of privilege. The im- 
pression on her mind would be that I had used my remark- 
able powers of invention and a sufficiently gentlemanly 
exterior to obtain admittance into society for which by 
condition I was not qualified. She, however, must submit 
to go through the dance with me, but she did so in a 
manner so cold and constrained as to show that she could 
be her father’s daughter in spite of the sweetness of her 
disposition. 

I took it most decidedly as a matter of course that I 
should be believed, but yet, as you can well think, it was 
so difficult a subject to approach that not for some min- 
utes could I satisfy myself how to begin. ‘ Miss Guest,’ I 
said, all possible solicitude in my voice, ‘I am aware ap- 
pearances are against me.’ Certainly by her manner she 
showed no intention of contradicting me. ‘ I beg of you to 
suspend judgment until I have been heard in explanation.’ 

‘Most decidedly some explanation is required,’ she re- 
plied,looking haughtily down,and being at no pains to con- 
ceal her annoyance. 

If I may be allowed to take you to Mrs. Masons when 
this set is over, I am sure I can satisfy— you,’ I was going 
to say, but substituted ‘her.’ She made no reply ; I 


The Managing-Cleric’s Story. 


47 


could not tell whether I had at all shaken her in her bad 
impression of me. 

‘ I assure you I have done nothing a gentleman might not 
do ; I wish you could think I am speaking the truth. I had 
waited for a favorable interval in which to say it, growing- 
more and more eager for what she might answer. She 
looked up at me quickly, with one of those sudden relent- 
ings, half -capricious and wholly sweet and kind. 

‘ I can’t quite know yet. I think you are.’ 

‘Thank you,’ I replied, warmly. ‘I esteem myself al- 
ready more than compensated for this momentary miscon- 
struction.’ Apparently she noticed nothing of my exceed- 
ing earnestness, looking straight before her with grave eyes 
and mouth. 

I was not quite to escape a scene, however. Opposite us 
I saw Mr. Guest, regarding us with the greatest astonish- 
ment. To confirm himself he had to resort to his eye-glass, 
and upon what he saw, went hurriedly and with a face of 
extreme displeasure to where Mrs. Mason sat. I was fer- 
vently thankful as much for his sake as my own, to see that 
he had sufficient command over his indignation and dis- 
gust to reserve his accusation until he had drawn her from 
the crowded ball-room. The dance over, I was just going 
to suggest a search for him when he touched me on the arm 
and peremptorily desired a word with me. 

‘And if you will allow me,’ he added, with freezing po- 
liteness, ‘ I should prefer to have Miss Guest under my own 
care.’ Taking his daughter on his arm, he stalked out of 
the room, I following, half-angry ; also, such is the force of 
attendant circumstances, with something of the air of a 
culprit. • In a small room at the back was Mrs. Mason, look- 
ing — anything but ‘proudly pleased.’ ‘Comfort yourself, 
my dear woman,’ I thought; ‘it is me. We’ll soon have 
it right. And then — we’ll see.’ By Jove, though, it began 
hot, and I came out in a character in which I hardly knew 
myself ; something new it was to hear patiently such words 
as were now addressed to me by Mr. Guest. 

‘So, sir, perhaps you will explain by what imposition 
you have contrived to obtain admission into Mrs. Mason’s 


48 


Christmas- Eve in a Light-house. 


house V He was so arrogant, that really if it had been any 
one but Miss Guest’s father I must have taken my revenge 
in chaffing him. 

‘I might well take offence at your tone, Mr. Guest ’ 

‘ I simply wish to know, before I ask you to relieve us of 
your presence, how you obtained admittance into my sister’s 
house V 

‘By the express invitation of Mrs. Mason herself,’ I re- 
plied, as temperately as it was in human nature to reply to 
a question worded so insultingly. ‘ As a friend of Mr. 
Robert Stopford’s, of whose family I am now a guest.’ 

‘ That is no answer at all. How am 1 to tell how and 
where you’made Mr. Stopford’s acquaintance ? I have had 
a sample of your ingenuity before, Mr. Marston, — if that’s 
really your name. It is my opinion you are nothing more 
than an adventurer, sir ; a low adventurer.’ 

He was rapidly talking himself into a rage, and I confess 
to a considerable degree of heat in my own answer to this. 
I drew myself up with angry contempt. 

‘ My name is Marston I beg to inform you — I am not in 
the habit of assuming false names. My father is a gentle- 
man of standing in Leicestershire. With my uncle, Mr. 
Smith Pentland, I believe you are well acquainted. I was 
staying af his house when I made a call upon you, I admit 
in a rather singular character. But it was at Mr. Pentland’ s 
request, and solely because none of his people of business 
whom he could send on an affair so private were at liberty.’ 

‘ Ah ! I quite understand you. You will hold no threats 
over me though. A gentleman need not to be ashamed to 
have been in difficulties, although it might be convenient at 
the time to keep it quiet. You won’ t threaten me.’ I could 
not get a word of disclaimer in edgeways, so wrathful was 
he. ‘ It is more than ever my opinion that you are nothing 
but an adventurer. I saw something of your inventive pow- 
ers then, remember !’ 

‘ There was no invention about it, Mr. Guest. I was, and 
am still, studying at Oxford.’ 

Miss Guest’s face had been entreating her father this long 
while. ‘I think Mr. Marston is to be believed, papa,’ she 
half-timidly interposed. 


The Managing-Clerk'' s Story. 


49 


‘ Frances, I am surprised you should have so little sense 
of propriety.’ 

Miss Guest, wincing under her father’s severity, and red- 
dening violently, made a minute study of h^r bouquet. I 
meant after this to exact a price for the affront put upon me, 
and so again recover my temper, and strove for a peaceful 
solution. 

‘With what will you be satisfied, Mr. Guest ? With Mr. 
Stopford’s word V 

‘I don’t vouch for all Mr. Robert Stopford’s acquaint- 
ances.’ Poor Bob ! if he had only heard. 

I make a gesture of impatience. 

‘ Is there no one from your neighborhood here, Mr. Mar- 
ston?’ asked Mrs.Mason, who would be only too pleased to 
have me verified, and yet retain her caution. ‘ My brother 
is naturally desirous of proof you need not take it as a 
personal matter. There is Lady Duncan Knox V 

‘ Lady Duncan ? Oh, I am quite ready to be confronted 
with Lady Duncan Knox.’ A little scornful I allowed my- 
self to be, now that I saw my way out of the muddle. ‘ I’ll 
go into the ball-room, if you please, and you separate your- 
self from me — it shall all be plain now — and call Lady Dun- 
can’s attention to me. I think you will be satisfied, Mr. 
Guest. 

Of course the proof tendered was unimpeachable ; and 
seeing me so confident, Mr. Guest cooled down with rather 
ludicrous rapidity, and indeed was altogether nonplussed. 
Like a great many people, who mostly find themselves in 
the end in a predicament because of it, he had determined, 
with or against reason, that a certain thing was to be. He 
had decided that I was an imposter ; and now that it ap- 
peared more than doubtful he was not very comfortable. 

‘ It is so difficult to know whom to believe,’ he said, al- 
most apologetically, as he led the way. Miss Guest, with 
Mrs. Mason, followed us at a short interval. I caught a 
side-glimpse of her, talking with, for her, unusual impet- 
uosity, to her aunt. Once in the room the proceeding 
showed itself to Mr. Guest yet more equivocal. 

‘ Really— we might, I think, dispense with any test,’ said 
he, condescendingly. 


60 


Christmas- Em in a Light-house. 

‘ I prefer that Lady Duncan should be spoken to. I in- 
sist upon it, indeed.’ I hadn’t half done with Mr. Guest, 
you see. I might want him again. 

At once more assured and more uncomfortable, he went 
across to my lady ; I standing alone for some minutes, out- 
wardly with an air of unconcern, inwardly with an absurd 
sense of being surveyed. Soon I became aware that Mr. 
Guest was guiding the lady through the crowd to where I 
stood. 

‘ How do you do, Mr. Marston ?’ said she, coming up with 
extended hand, ‘how do you do? Mr. Guest happened to 
mention your name, and I begged him to escort me to you. 
We are only j ust from Rome, and I am dying for home 
news. Is Mr. Norris going to stand for the county ?’ 

Lady Duncan Knox was a merry voluble woman of five- 
and-thirty or so ; very friendly with my mother, and a rela- 
tive of my father besides. 

‘I don’t think Mr. Norris will stand.’ 

‘Then your father, perhaps ?’ said she, with immense in- 
terest. 

‘ No, I think not. My father prefers his present seat for 
the borough.’ 

And when shall I see my dear Mrs. Marston in town ? 
Not before the House sits, I fear ?’ 

‘ I suppose not ; my mother is not fond of town, you 
know. They are arranging the sets, may I have the pleasure 
of this dance with your ladyship ?’ 

‘Me?— I’m engaged— five deep. Perhaps a later one.’ 
And she moved away. * 

I looked hastily over my shoulder to where I knew 
Frances Guest was, and upon impulse she smiled back her 
pleasure. I was making towards her when her father de- 
tained me. 

Ml. Marston, I don’t know how to frame my excuses to 
you for my rudeness. It is little atonement I can make 
except in the way of words.’ 

‘None is needed, sir,’ I answered, promptly ; because, of 
course, I wasn’t going to make it a quarrel now. And indeed 
he hadn’t spoken badly. ‘ We are all Hable to sUght mis- 
takes, Mr. Guest.’ 


The Managing -Clerk' s Story. 


61 


‘I can’t forgive myself so easily ; I am afraid I was too 
much annoyed to be just. We do hear of such deceptions 
nowadays, that really I took the alarm too quickly. It 
seems almost an insult after what has passed, but if at any 
time you are down at Southwich, and you like to call at 
Cullerton House, you will be sure of a welcome, and — you 
will do me a favor.’ 

I thanked him heartily, and proved my sincerity by es- 
caping to Miss Guest as soon as politeness allowed. I found 
it would be late before she could give me a dance, but, half 
in pique, I stood out until my turn came. 

‘ You are not dancing much to-night,’ she said, as we 
took our places. 

‘Sometimes I like the other thing best.’ 

‘ I’m afraid,’ said she, in a tone of vexation, ‘it’s because 
the evening has been made so disagreeable for you.’ 

‘It’s very good of you to distress yourself about me. 
But it has not been altogether disagreeable indeed.’ 

I could not help speaking significantly ; somehow the 
tone had got into my voice, and I couldn’t get it out. 

‘ What you did, Mr. Marston, you did in kindness, too.’ 

‘But I do take some blame to myself. You see. Miss 
Guest, it is not right for a man to put himself in a false 
position. At least — well — I don’t know. I’m sure. I once 
argued it with my uncle, and we left off precisely where we 
began.’ 

‘ But you did it in the kindest way, and with the kindest 
intention.’ i 

Well, you know, it becomes really pleasant to accuse 
one’s self when one has so charming an advocate, self- 
enlisted. I said some foolish words of the sort. She 
blushed, but she had such a staid, demure way of listening 
to gallant speeches that really one was tempted on to words 
more and more meaning. 

‘I say, weren’t you flirting last night, Marston?’ said 
Bob next morning, striving to organize certain piecemeal 
recollections. 

I put him off with some light speech, for you may be 
sure I should not make his confidence reciprocal. But I 


62 


Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 

don’t mind admitting now that I left the Mason’s ball with 
a very gravely-damaged anatomy. I must have been hit 
deeply, for the frost broke up, and I still preferred Sussex 
for the remainder of the vacation. However, it is reassur- 
ing to know that I could take interest in the furtheraiite 
and enjoyment of the different social courtesies between 
Hetton and Grill Hall. Nor was this all. On the next oc- 
casion of seeing Mr. Smith Pentland I expressed such 
pleasant remembrances of my last autumn’s visit that he 
invited me to repeat it in the coming one. But I am almost 
ashamed to say that, once at Southwich, I still more 
adroitly contrived to be invited on to Cullerton itself. For 
the partridge-shooting, my host said — my own object I did 
not talk much about then. 

You won’t say I sped badly, though, when I tell you 
that the Christmas saw me at Grill Hall, the accepted and 
approved suitor of sweet, dear Frances Guest ; and so 
ended my “Delicate Mission.” 

Every one had listened attentively to the narrator, and 
as he concluded, the interest in the circle of story-tellers 
was not permitted to flag, but was instantly resumed by 
our friend the American, who consented to favor the com- 
pany with a story of adventure in the Far West. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE AMERICAN’S STORY— A ROCKY MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE. 

“About six years ago-no, I think it must be nearer 
seven— I was with a party of friends hunting in the Rocky 
Mountains. There were eight of us in all; but I needn’t 
tell you all their names. One of them, however, I may 
mention particularly ; he was a tall, good-looking youncr 
Englishman, as frank and generous a fellow as I have ever 
met. He must have been about twenty-four, I should say 
Well, we were very good friends in no time, and became 
quite confidential as we sat over the camp fire of an even- 


The American's Story. 63 

ing. We shared the same tent ; so, not unnaturally, in the 
six weeks that we camped out in those wild regions, I heard 
all about his relations and friends in England. He was to 
be married to a certain' young lady, who possessed, accord- 
ing to him, all the cardinal virtues, and beauty as well ; 
but whose father, considering Charley (did I say his name 
— Charley Ebsworth) a rather changeable young man — 
which he really was in some respects — and the girl too 
young, had decreed that he should not see her for a year. 
If, at the end of that time, they had neither of them altered 
their minds, he wouldn’t stand in the way. 

“ Well, we had very bad sport, and for ever so long never 
had a glimpse of a bear, until one day Ebsworth and I de- 
termined to go out alone and try our luck, which promised 
more fun.if we did succeed in stalking one, as there was a 
spice of danger about it. We provided ourselves with some 
dry biscuits, and each put a whisky flask in his pocket, 
loaded our guns, and examined our knives, to see that they 
were in trim and to be depended on. Thus prepared for an 
encounter with a grizzly, we set off early one fine, cold, 
brisk morning, determined not to return without something 
to show, if we could help it. 

“ Our camp was fixed on the side of a mountain ; at the 
bottom of the valley ran a river, smooth and untroubled, 
while above were the steep, rocky sides, covered with pine 
trees in places, though here and there showing rugged and 
barren of verdure. The dark tops of the pine trees stood 
out in strong relief against the sky, while on the other side 
of us peak after peak raised itself to touch the clouds. 
We climbed upward, and were soon threading our way 
among the trees. We walked if or a long way, sometimes 
climbing up, sometimes descending, without seeing a sign 
of game. After a time we came to where the river had 
hewn itself a path out of the rock, and rushed turbulently 
between steep, smooth walls, surmounted by trees whose 
roots were often exposed to view where the water had 
washed the soil away when swollen during the rainy sea- 
son. Several times we came upon Indians, in their birch 
canoes, shooting the rapids, with feather head-dresses and 


64 Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 

bright-colored garments, their dark faces animated with the 
excitement as they steered their way along the black rocks 
that showed in places surrounded by white foam. I sup- 
pose there isn’t much danger really to them, as they are so 
used to it ; but an inexperienced man would certainly be 
dashed to pieces in less than a minute if he were to venture 
down those boiling curves, 

“ At last we came upon sheep tracks, and, following them 
for a little distance, we were soon rejoiced with the sight of 
four mountain sheep feeding, some six hundred yards off. 
We crept up very cautiously, till near enough to get a good 
shot, and fired simultaneously. One fell. The other three 
galloped off, apparently unhurt. I fired my other barrel 
after them, but without effect. 

“ The sheep we found quite dead. Charley had a great 
objection to skinning and cutting it up, so I performed that 
operation, and hung the quarters on the branch of a tree, 
out of the reach of bears, should any come that way. Then 
we went on some miles further, without seeing a sign of a 
bear or of game of any kind ; and at last we thought it best 
to turn back, or we might not be able to reach the camp be- 
fore nightfall. When we had nearly arrived at the place 
where we had shot the sheep, Ebs worth seized me by the 
arm. 

“ ‘Look there!’ he whispered, excitedly; ‘straight be- 
fore you. Do you see V 

“And there, sure enough, under a tree some distance 
ahead, was a huge bear, patting something on the ground— 
what, we could not see. 

“ ‘We had better get up trees,’ I began. 

“But before the words were well out of my mouth he 
fired, and his shot was followed by a yell of rage from the 
great brute, which raised itself on its hind legs, and looked 
round to see who were its assailants. Then, apparently 
catching sight of us, it came toward us full pelt. 

‘ Up a tree, Charley, quick !’ I shouted ; and we darted 
off in different directions. 

“But in a minute I became aware that the nearest tree 
was a hundred yards off, and that the beast would be on 


The Americanos Story. 


65 


me before I could get to it. I turned round, took a hasty 
aim and fired, but with no other effect than that of lessen- 
ing the distance between us by stopping. I saw then that 
my only chance lay in the hope of checking his advance 
with the other barrel, and fired again. But this second 
shot took no effect, and I had but just time to pull out my 
knife when he was upon me. I can now recall the sensa- 
tion exactly — the horrid feeling of being clasped in his em- 
brace, of his hot breath upon me, and his fur stiffing me. 

I struck at him with my knife, and finally buried it in his 
side before I lost consciousness. 

“When I opened my eyes, it was to find Charley Ebs- 
worth supporting me, pale as death, and administering 
whisky neat, with a very anxious expression of counte- 
nance. 

“‘Are you better 1’ he asked. ‘I really thought the 
beast had done for you.’ 

“‘So did I.’ 

“And I sat up and felt myself, to see if any bones were 
broken. I felt rather faint, and was considerably bruised, 
but that was all the harm done. 

“‘What a narrow escape!’ I exclaimed. ‘By Jove, 
Charley, that was near. Where is it V 

“ ‘Behind you,’ was the answer. 

“And sure enough there it lay, quite dead. 

“‘How did you manage it?’ was naturally my next 
question. 

“ ‘Why, I came up behind and struck at him, when he 
dropped you and turned on me. And then we had a bit of 
a tussle ; but you had wounded him considerably already, 
so I disposed of him without much difficulty.’ 

“ ‘ And are you not hurt at all V I asked. 

“He held out his arm, which he had bound up with his 
handkerchief. 

“ ‘I did get clawed slightly there,' that’s all. How you 
stop here while I fetch some water for you and wash my 
arm. I shan’t be many minutes, for I can hear the river 
now, so it can’t be far off.’ 

“I got on to my feet, meaning to go with him, but felt 


56 


Christmas- Evehn a Light-house. 

too sick and giddy, so had to sit down again and watch 
him disappear among the trees. 

“ ‘ I shall have to walk fast, if we mean to get back to 
camp to-night,’ I thought, as I sat waiting. 

“The minutes slipped by, and at last I grew tired of sit- 
ting still, and, rising to my feet again, staggered about a 
bit, to get rid of the giddiness ; and after a little of the 
whisky, which I had in my pocket, felt ever so much better. 
Charley’s flask lay on the ground, where he had laid it 
when giving me some out of the little metal cup that fltted 
on to the bottom, and I picked it up to put in my pooket, 
for fear it might be forgotten. 

“ ‘ What a long time he is !’ 1 thought, after a while. ‘ I 
had better go and look after him !’ 

“So I set off in the direction I had seen him take, and 
halloa’d to him, but received no response. Certainly it 
was the way he had gone, because I had noticed him pass 
that fallen tree, and sure enough the sound of water was 
nearer already. It could not be far off, and I walked on, 
and was soon greeted with a sight of the river, rushing 
along a gorge, fifty feet below me. It was a perfectly per- 
pendicular wall of rock on the top of which I stood. I 
saw at once that, as he could not get down there, he 
must have turned either to the left or the right to find 
some means of descending to the water. To the left, 
evidently, it would be no use to go, as the cliff became 
every moment more steep ; but to the right it descended, 
and so that way I turned. I shouted again, and called 
‘ Charley ’ at the top of my voice ; but there was no 
answer. After walking some little distance, I came to a 
place where it was possible -to climb down, and was soon 
having a deep refreshing draught ; but though I looked up 
and down the stream, there was not a sign of him I sought. 
Receiving no reply to my repeated shouting and whistling, 
I decided that I must have missed him, and that he had re- 
turned to the place where he had left me. So, painfully 
and slowly, I clambered up where I had descended, and set 
off to find my way back again. 

“ I walked along the edge of the cliff again, till I came to 


The AmericarCs Story. 


67 


where I had first looked over, and, lying down on my face, 
for I was still giddy, I looked over the side again, down at 
the rushing water. Could he have fallen over the edge ? 
The horrible thought would present itself to me ; and if he 
had, he must certainly have been dashed to pieces on the 
rocks below. Turning sick at the mere idea of such a 
thing, I went back to the place where the bear was lying, 
hoping to find him there waiting for me ; but no, he was 
not there, nor was there anything to show that he had been 
there and gone again. I wandered about, and whistled and 
halloa’d again till I was hoarse, when I came to the conclu- 
sion that he must have lost himself, and would most prob- 
ably endeavour to find his way back to the camp, which I 
had better do as well. The worst of it was that he had 
with him neither gun, knife, nor whisky flask, having left 
all these lying on the ground by me. 

“ I went back, picked up my gun and his too, stuck both 
knives into my belt, and set off. The sun was now on the 
point of setting, so long a time had been spent in the fight 
with the bear, and in Ebsworth’s disappearance and my 
search for him. I soon became aware that it would be dark 
before I could be a quarter of the way back. 

“ I walked for some distance, and then stopped and hesi- 
tated. I could not feel sure that I was going the right 
way. It was getting dusk, too ; so there was nothing for it 
but to get up the most suitable tree I could find and wait 
for the morning. I was so tired that I managed to sleep in 
spite of the discomforts of my position ; for a tree is not a 
convenient place to sleep in, especially if you haven’t a 
blanket or anything to roll yourself up m. It was ex- 
tremely cold, too, but a little pull from my flask kept me 
from feeling that so much. 

In the morning I descended and looked about me. I 
had not the least idea where I was ; but a little reflection 
told me that if I looked toward the north the river must be 
to my right hand, and by following the river I must reach 
the camp in time. I had wandered away from the water 
the evening before, and it was, in consequence, some time 
before I reached it again. However, before the sun set 


58 


Christmas- Bve in a Light-house. 


again, the welcome sight of the camp greeted me ; and 
hungry, faint, and thoroughly worn out, I presented myself 
among the party. They had sent out in search of us — two 
in one direction, two in another — and were as much horri- 
fied to see me return without Charley Ebsworth as I was to 
find he was not in camp. 

“The next day we left one man in charge of the camp, 
and the rest of us rode off together to look for him. When 
we came to the tree on which we had hung the mutton, I 
was surprised to find it was not there— a fact which I had 
not noticed on the previous evening, never having thought 
about it then. .However, a little farther on we came to the 
skin, carefully patted into the ground, when I remembered 
that, when we first caught sight of the bear, it was patting 
something into the earth ; and one of the party, who un- 
derstood the habits of the grizzly, set to work to dig up the 
earth, and there, a little way down, were the four quarters 
of my sheep. Not far from this lay the carcase of the 
bear; but we were too anxious about Charley to stop ,for 
the skin, and continued our search. 

“At night we all met together in camp again, weary and 
dispirited after our fruitless quest. For the two or three 
succeeding days we scoured the country again, each time 
taking a wider range ; but it was all in vain. We assem- 
bled in camp each night, feeling the case more hopeless, but 
dreading to say that it must be given up. There seemed to 
be no way but one of accounting for his extraordinary dis- 
appearance, and that was that he had fallen over the cliff, 
and been dashed on the rocks, when his body would be 
washed away by the current. 

“At last we had to confess that further search was use- 
less, and that we must give up and turn southward, all the 
pleasure of our excursion being spoiled by this melancholy 
ending. We were soon in civilized regions again, and sep- 
arated to go our different ways. I felt that I ought to 
write to Charley’s friends; but as I had never heard the 
names or address of any of them, it was impossible to 
do so. 


The AmericarCs Story » 


69 


“ After that I spent three years in the Eastern States, and 
then came to England, and it was here that, by a most ex- 
traordinary coincidence — well, that is putting the end first. 
Let me see : it was four years after the adventure in the 
Rocky Mountains that I was going on a long railway 
journey by night, two or three days before Christmas. 

“My fellow-passengers were a little, short, stout, jolly 
man, very talkative and good-tempered ; a rather grave, 
quiet individual, who was a lawyer, I think he told us ; and 
a man so wrapped up, and with his hat so much down over 
his eyes, that we could not see what he was like. 

“ It was just such a night as this ; but we made ourselves 
very comfortable, and got talking about many things very 
pleasantly, except the mutfled-up man in the corner, who 
did not speak a word. We were all going a long distance, 
which made us the more chatty, as we should have to pass 
some time together. 

“The lawyer informed us that he was going to fetch his 
sister from the north of England, to spend Christmas with 
him in London. The little fat man and I were both going 
to spend the next week with friends in Scotland. 

“ ‘And are you, sir, on your way to pass Christmas with 
your friends asked the lawyer, making an endeavor to 
draw the gentleman in the corner into the conversation. 

“ ‘No,’ he answered, abruptly and sharply ; ‘I have no 
friends to pass it with.’ 

“ His voice made me start violently. 

“ ‘Charley’! I exclaimed, involuntarily. 

“He looked up then for the first time, and his eyes met 
mine— the same clear, dark gray eyes. There was no doubt 
about it ; it was Charley Ebsworth. 

“ I started up, and, going to that end of the carriage, sat 
down opposite to him. 

“ ‘Charley, is it really you? Alive and well? Thank 
Heaven! But why did you not speak to me before?’ I 
asked, as we exchanged a warm clasp of the hand. ‘ Hid 
you not know me ? ’ 

“ ‘I knew you directly you entered the carriage, he an- 
swered. 


60 


Christmas-Eve in a Light-house. 


“ ‘ Then why did yon not speak ? ’ 

“He did not answer. The lawyer and the little stout 
man, after looking at us for a minute in mute astonishment, 
had, with true gentlemanly instinct, moved close up to the 
other window, and entered into conversation. 

“ ‘What became of you when you left me on the moun- 
tain V I asked. 

“‘I fell over the cliff,’ he answered. ‘My arm, you 
know, was torn open, and I turned giddy and lost my bal- 
ance. The water was deep where I fell, and I came to the 
top, and was carried along a little way, till I managed to 
climb to a rock and climb on to it. Then I was picked off 
by an Indian in a canoe.’ 

“ ‘And then why did you not come back to the camp?’ I 
asked. 

“ ‘The Indian kept me prisoner for six long months be- 
fore I managed to get away, when I returned home as 
quickly as I could.’ 

“His tone was so melancholy that I did not like to ques- 
tion him further, but merely pressed his hand and looked 
at him inquiringly. 

“ ‘ She was married,’ he said, in a low tone, and averted 
his face. 

“WeU, that is all. I have only seen him three times 
since. He is not at all the same fellow that I knew in the 
States ; he is cynical and reserved, and is married now to a 
woman older than himself, with a lot of money.” 

It was past the hour of two when Stanton Bell finished 
his story and the storm still beat wildly against the win- 
dows of their temporary prison. So the fire having been 
rebuilt Basil Wilton, who sat next in order, asked if the 
company cared to hear a nautical ghost story. All were 
unanimous in the affirmative and Basil started thus : 


Basil Wilton's Story. 


61 


CHAPTER V. 

BASIL Wilton’s stort — the ghost on the north 

ATLANTIC. 

It was on a bright sunny afternoon in June that I 
stood on Pier 20, North River, New York, a passenger 
by the Anchor line steamer, “Cimbria,” bound for 
Glasgow. The “Cimbria” was a fine vessel; of nearly 
two thousand tons’ burden, and commanded by a genial 
Scotchman in the person of Capt. McRae. She was chiefiy 
engaged in the Mediterranean trade, and many a fine cargo 
of Messina oranges and Malaga grapes, to say nothing of 
currants from the Greek archipelago and pressed figs from 
Constantinople, found their way into Gotham in the good 
ship, “ Cimbria.” 

There were but few passengers, for the tide of travel had 
scarcely as yet fairly set eastward for the season, so that 
the usual shyness apparent amongst a number of people 
gathered for the first time around the same table, soon wore 
away, and we had scarcely lost sight of^Sandy Hook before 
we were all on excellent terms with each other. Let me, 
in a few words, endeavor to describe my fellow passengers. 
First and foremost was a Mr. Mallet, a gentleman, about 
thirty -four, tall and slight, with clear complexion, light * 
eyes, and auburn hair and beard — poor fellow, his voyaging 
soon afterwards ended for ever.— He had spent the Winter 
in Southern Europe, in order to propitiate a weak and 
broken-down constitution, but, although he had thus es- 
caped the chiUing blasts of an English Winter, the im- 
provement was but a temporary one, and, in spite of a 
cheerful, almost gay, exterior, nature was rapidly suc- 
cumbing to the strain placed upon her. 

Poor Tom Mallet— peace to his ashes in the old church- 
yard at Marston, for a truer heart never beat, as I 
often proved in after years. Next in order was a Mrs. 
Thelwell, a grass- widow, from Albany, who intended 
passing the Summer in Paris, so as to bring out 
her only daughter, a bright-eyed brunette of eighteen or 


62 


Chrisimas-Eoe in a Light ’house. 

thereabouts. Both mother and daughter looked forward 
with delight to a sojourn in the gay Capital, and were 
never tired of discoursing on the subject of Paris fashions 
in dress and millinery, and other kindred topics on which 
the fair sex love to dilate. Being the only ladies on board 
they enjoyed a complete monopoly of the gentlemen’s soci- 
ety, which did not, of course, detract in any way, from their 
of the trip across. The cabin circle was com- 
pleted in the persons of Mr. Thomas Bolton, the owner of a 
large and profitable saw-mill in Georgia, and a native of 
England, who was revisiting the old country for the first 
time, after an absence of nearly twenty-six years. With 
him was his eldest son, a young fellow of seventeen whose 
“fast” demeanor contrasted very strongly with the sober 
style and quaint aspect of his worthy pere. This young 
gentleman at first made ardent advances on Miss Thelwell, 
until as promptly repelled by that prudent young lady, 
wlio anticipated the accomplishment of higher conquests in 
“ la belle Prance.” For the first three or four days nothing 
occurred to vary the monotony of the voyage with the ex- 
ception of an occasional shoal of porpoise or a passing sail, 
but as both are stocJc incidents on the Atlantic, I need not 
dwell on them with any degree of particularity. On 
the sixth day out a cry rang from end to end of the 
steamer, “a waterspout,” a waterspout, and we had an 
opportunity of studying one of the strangest forms of 
natural phenomena the sea affords. Imagine a vast 
pillar of water, wide at the base which rests in the 
ocean, and gradually narrows to a peak as it touches 
the clouds, whilst it has a sort of a swift gyrating mo- 
tion ^ under the influence of contending winds. The 
one in question continued to move swiftly forward and 
remained in sight for some twenty minutes, when it burst 
with a loud and resonant report. 

Our evenings were generally occupied in playing cards-— 
a rubber of whist ora round game of “speculation,” the 
“pool” always finding its way into the box devoted to the 
interests of the Royal Lifeboat Institution ; and on the 
night in question we had had a more than usually lively 


Basil Wilton's Story. 


63 


time, and the gaily* decorated and handsome saloon rang 
with merry laughter. The intervals between the port-lights 
were tilled by a series of oval frescoes representing different 
towns and cities in Italy, and this led to a discussion on 
their relative claims on the attention of the tourist. In the 
midst of the discussion (which is, of course, irrelevant to my 
story, and only introduced as a species of data to the sequel) 
a steward appeared at the saloon entrance with the captain’s 
compliments begging the attendance of Mr. Mallett and Mr. 
Wilton on deck, as there was a beautiful exhibition of the 
aurora. Three springs carried us up the companion-way, 
and on emerging we found Capt. McRae standing by the 
taffrail. It was a magnificent sight with a clear full moon 
— such a one as is but rarely experienced except at sea — and 
the whole steamer was bathed in a flood of cold, white light. 
The sea around was irradiated by the presence of shoals 
of Mollusca, or jelly-fish, whose phosphorescent tints, 
appeared in a constant change of coloring as the waves 
dashed against the counter. Far away on the northern 
horizon the clearly defined rays of the Aurora were sharply 
thrown forward in an almost perfect bow. Indeed and 
truth it was a glorious tout ensemhU, and for a time held 
us all spell-bound by its almost magnetic attraction. To 
summon the ladies was our first thought, and having care- 
fully djonned a series of becoming wraps they joined us on 
deck under the escort of the two remaining gentlemen of the 
party. And now comes the point of my story; I have said 
that we were standing at the taffrail, a little at one side of 
the wheel-house. In the latter were the quartermaster and 
two men attached to the watch, besides these and the seaman 
pacing in front of the binnacle, the quarter-deck was entirely 
deserted save by our party who were loud— particularly the 

ladies in their expressions of delight and amazement. 

Everyone had something to add to the general fund of anec- 
dote that floated round relative to minor experiences of asim- 
ilar character in Nice,— on the Calabrian coast, or in sunny 
Florida Then the deep basso of the captain’s voice joins 
in and we are held spell-bound by the recital of some 
wild tale of ocean peril and hair-breadth escape. 


64 


Christmas- Eve in a Lighthouse. 


In the midst of all this we are electrified by a cry, 
bearing an unmistakeable approach to a human one, and 
yet so weird and unearthly as to chill the very blood in our 
veins. The Captain was the first to recover his self-posses- 
sion — in fact it had never deserted him — and his earliest im- 
pulse was to challenge the watch and demand the cause of 
the strange cry. Before he could gain a response the same 
sound came wailing on the stillness — this time apparently 
nearer than ever. Again was the demand loudly and 
sternly repeated — what do you want \ and this time sliarp 
and clear came the response from the binacle — “I didn’t 
speak, sir ?” Pass the word forward to the bridge and ask 
the oflicer of the watch who shouted, — and back from the 
bridge came the unsatisfactory reply, “No one !” By this 
time a considerable amount of trepidation had seized upon 
the fair widow and her daughter, whilst the other members 
of the party endeavored to assume an amount of ease but 
little felt. For myself I am free to confess the presence of 
a slight tingling at the roots of my hair which speedily 
communicated kindred sensations to other portions of my 
frame. In the midst of a council of war which threw 
not the slightest light upon the cause of the strange dis- 
turbance the same weird, terrible cry, twice repeated, came 
apparently almost from under our very feet. To rush to 
the side was but the work of a moment, and there level 
with the water lay an upturned human face, ghastly white, 
with lurid piercing eyes and moving lips, from which 
no sound seemed to come. It was a terrible sight ; 
enough to make the stoutest heart quail and grow faint. 
At every dip of the steamer, the head dipped too, but 
always in one never-changing position, whilst the long, 
dark hair floated backward on the tide. Overcome by 
the spectral appearance, the fair widow fainted in the too 
willing arms of the Georgian sawyer, whilst her daughter 
clung to his hitherto despised offspring for moral and 
physical support. The only unmoved member of the party 
was our commander, who maintained his usual cool de- 
meanor, as if the work of encountering ghostly heads on 
mid-ocean were but part and parcel of his professional career. 


The Light- Keeper'' s Story. 


65 


Issuing his orders with customary promptitude, the steamer 
was speedily brought to ; but by this time the head liad 
disappeared and was seen no more, and so ended “My 
strange adventure on the North Atlantic.” Of the rest of 
the voyage I need say nothing, suffice it to say that in 
spite of untoward prognostication the remainder of our 
trip to the Clyde was both comfortable and rapid, and 
five days after saw us abreast of Greenock. 

I would add that the matter-of-fact Quartermaster — a 
staunch Presbyterian — privately expressed to me his belief 
that the whole thing might be traced to natural causes, 
and was beginning to talk of large ports and inquisitive 
stewards, when I lost all patience, and very properly 
scouted such ideas, as any sensible man would have done. 

There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, 

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 

During the concluding sentences of Basil’s story the 
lightkeeper was observed to move uneasily in his chair, 
and when silence again ensued, giving a hitch to his sea- 
man’s trousers, he preferred the request that he might be 
allowed to relate a rather thrilling adventure of which in 
past years he had been the subject. Permission being 
readily accorded, Forbes thus began : 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE LIGHT- keeper’s STORY — “THE CORPSE-GLEAM.” 

Some three and twenty years ago I was assistant light- 
keeper at Rymore, on the Upton Sands. It was a wild, 
dreary spot, some four miles from the Lancashire coast, 
and my only visitors were an occasional fisherman and the 
regular monthly supply boat belonging to the Trinity 
House Commissioners. I should not have minded its 
lonely character but unfortunately the place bore a 
bad name, and many a weird story ^ found its way 
into the village tap-rooms in connection with the Rymore 
light. Although these tales all differed in their style of 


66 


Christmas-Em in a Light-house. 


narration, still they were substantially alike in the main 
and all referred to tlie presence of an unearthly light which 
from time to time made its appearance on the Sands and 
was always the precursor of disaster. The story generally 
took something of the following form : “ Years ago, before 
the coast was much peopled, it was the custom of the few 
travellers who had occasion to cross the Estuary which 
flowed between a break in the coast to do so on horseback — 
when the tide was out — as it saved a wide detour. One 
rough winter’s eve a solitary traveller had nearly reached 
the opposite shore when suddenly, to his amazement, a 
vivid bright light appeared to spring up almost under his 
horse’s feet and then as suddenly to vanish as it were into 
the earth. Almost at the same moment a pitiful, un- 
earthly yell broke the silence of the hour, and then all was 
again still. His horse, usually a quiet and docile animal, 
grew so unmanageable as to almost throw his rider who was 
obliged to dismount and finally to relinquish his hold on the 
bridle-rein. The horse, wild with terror, galloped furiously 
away and the traveller essayed to reach the shore on foot. 
He had not, however, proceeded Tar before he stumbled 
across a body of some kind, and, on closer examination, it 
turned out to be the corpse of a beautiful girl. In her side 
was a ghastly wound and her white dress was covered with 
crimson blood stains. Half dead with cold and sick with 
terror the traveller bore the light, delicate frame, to the 
nearest house, where it was laid on the only bed the cot- 
tage afforded. That night a fearful storm burst upon the 
low-lying coast, and ,in the midst of it a large outward- 
bound Indiaman ran upon the Sands, and out of a large 
crew and a number of passengers only one man was saved 
and borne insensible into the very cottage where the mur- 
dered girl lay. When he in a measure recovered, the story 
was told him, and he was taken to see the corpse. 
Imagine the horror of the bystanders when, on catching 
a sight of the uncovered face, he uttered a terrible 
shriek and fell down senseless. On recovering, he 
confessed that the corpse was that of his young wife 
whom he had brutally murdered on board in a fit 


67 


The Light-Keepef s Story. 

of rage and jealousy, and cast overboard, and whom 
inscrutable Providence had seen fit thus to avenge. The self- 
convicted murderer paid the penalty of his crime, and from 
that hour it is said that the Sands of Upton are haunted by 
the spirit of the murdered girl, which seems to rise from 
the shoal and go circling round, echoing and wailing as one 
in mortal agony.” Be this as it may, certain it is that on 
several occasions farmers and villagers returning late 
from market brought home wonderful stories of strange 
sights and sounds they had encountered on the lonely 
expanse of sand and shingle. 

Men of our^calling are, as a rule, of an eminently practi- 
cal turn of mind, with but little leaning towards the ghostly 
or marvelous, so I paid but a passing attention to these 
spectral stories until one cold January night I received a 
lesson I shall never forget. I had seen the lamps filled and 
trimmed, a duty which always pertains to the light- 
keeper’s assistant, and was quietly seated at my lonely 
supper, for my mate hadjgone off in a fishing boat in order 
to procure some few necessaries on shore — I should say 
that our liglit was erected on the westermost edge of the 
Sands, and commanded a view over the whole.— Whilst at 
supper busily engaged in thinking out a somewhat 
difficult problem in connection with my duty, a shrill, 
long protracted and horrible cry burst upon my ear. 
To seize my lamp, unbar the door, and hurry forth, was 
the work of an instant, and as I stood on the outer plat- 
form of the Lighthouse my eye strove to pierce the barrier 
of darkness all around. As I vainly strained my vision the 
same piteous wail came borne on the night air, and alinost 
at the same moment a twinkling, moving light, sped rapidly 
across the Sands in the direction of the Lighthouse. I am 
not ashamed to say that I stood as though spell- bound and 
for a time helpless. But the force of discipline soon asserted 
itself and in a moment I was cool and collected. I am not 
sure that at the time I had any settled programme of 
action, and even if I had, the quick succession of after oc- 
currences must have driven it clean out of my head. All 
that I can remember with any degree of clearness is the 


68 


Christmas- Eoe in a Light-house. 

following Oil first sighting the light it moved with a uni- 
formly gliding motion, which rapidly increased as it neared 
the Lighthouse, whilst it seemed at the same time to gain in 
brilliancy. I have already intimated that the night was 
intensely dark, so that it was utterly impossible to dis- 
tinguish an object a yard or two in front. Still the light 
sped on nearer and nearer until it rested within a hundred 
paces of where I stood. All the terrible tales I had heard 
of the fateful ‘ ‘ Corpse Gleam ’ ' came crowding into my 
mind with added terrors, but discipline had triumphed 
over nature, and I was cool and calm. I knew very 
well that, whatever happened, I could only rely on 
my own resources, for aid as my companion would not 
be likely to return before early morning, perhaps 
later. So I stood still with a beating heart and listened. 
With the exception of the sough of the sea all was stUl as 
the grave, and I had begun to think that my eyes were 
playing me false when I thought I detected a slight move- 
ment underneath the gallery on which I stood. As you 
may see, gentlemen, by a glance around, we are pretty 
well supplied with weapons of defence— a by no means 
useless precaution in so lonely and isolated a position. On 
the occasion of which I am speaking I was armed with a 
brace of pistols and a short seaman’s cutlass, and on sight- 
ing the moving object my hand wandered to my belt; 
but before I could draw either sword or pistols a dark 
form confronted me.— I felt a heavy blow, and then all was 
a blank. When I recovered I found myself lying on my 
pallet-bed, and my mate, Jem Walton, was bending anx- 
iously over me. My first thoughts in the dim return of 
consciousness were devoted to the Ughts, and I eagerly in- 
quired if they were aU right. “ Thee bide a bit, lad,” said 
Jem in his quaint North country dialect, “and I will tell 
thee all. Meantime take a sup of this broth and then 
get thee to sleep a wee.” But he might have spared his 
kindly though rough advice, for I had again fainted; and 
then followed days of delirium, in which I raved of 
“corpse lights,” and murdered women until it required 
all Jem’s strength to keep me in bed. Our good doctor 


69 


The Light- Keeper' s Story. 

here, who was at that time living on the coast, and had 
been hastily summoned by signal, paid me every attention, 
and by the aid of Providence and a good constitution, I 
gradually pulled through, and grew strong enough to lis- 
ten to Jem’s story of my sudden mishap. For a long 
period previously the coast had been infested by a vile 
crew of wreckers who made it their business, by means 
of false lights and signals to endeavor to entice ships on 
shore. The bad odor possessed by the Sands gave them a 
great advantage, and they endeavored in every way to in- 
crease it by working on the nervous fancies of the simple 
country-folk. It seems they gleaned a knowledge of Jem’s 
visit on shore, and had conceived the audacious project of 
capturing the Lighthouse and extinguishing the lights, trust- 
ing to the continuance of the storm to prevent Jem’s return. 
Stealthily mounting the step-ladder they had managed to 
surprise me by a dangerous blow on the head, and were 
proceeding to extinguish the lamps when the sudden and 
unexpected return of my companion, in company with four 
stout fishermen completely changed the aspect of affairs, 
and put the scoundrels to flight. Shortly afterwards they 
were all hunted down and captured, and during the rest of 
my residence on the Upton Sands, I never heard that any 
one was again troubled by the presence of the “Corpse 
Grleam.” 

Doctor Cuming, who was naturally a little embarrassed 
at the kindly references made to him in Forbes’ tale, broke 
the silence that followed by saying, that if his friends 
deemed that any incident in the generally wonderful life of 
a village surgeon might not prove unacceptable, he would 
gladly take his turn in the story-telling circle, by giving a 
rather unpleasant experience that once fell to his lot. But 
we must devote a fresh chapter to the Doctor’s story. 


70 


Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE doctor’s story. — “MURDER WILL OUT.” 

It is now more than five and twenty years since I first be- 
gan to practice in a small out of the way village called Tar- 
rant Stanmore. It was a wild and rough place enough. So 
wild that in my frequent visits to my scattered patients I 
frequently lost my way, and in so doing met with several 
queer adventures ; although all these were eclipsed by the 
story I am about to relate. The village itself was situated 
on a wide bare moor which extended for miles on every side, 
and the nearest habitation was an old dilapidated Inn some 
two miles and a half eastward. It so happened on the fiist 
Christmas-Eve after my settlement in Tarrant Stanmore 
or Stanmore, as it was usually called, I had occasion to call 
on a patient who occupied one of a small cluster of cottages 
some nine miles beyond the Inn — a distance altogether, as I 
have already said of something less than twelve miles. It was 
a fine day, and the snow lay crisp and bright in the sun- 
light. There was no need for haste, as we were by no means 
busy, so I determined to walk. I was young and active 
then, and I seldom lost the opportunity of walking, for by 
so doing I gained a better knowledge of the country, as well 
as an increment of health from the exercise. 

The journey to the village was a long one for poor people, 
so we kept a small stock of medical necessaries at the place 
of which I have spoken, under the guardianship of one of 
the cottagers, and I took several small articles I remembered 
we required there, among them a little phial of a strong so- 
lution of nitrate of silver, to be diluted hereafter and used 
for certain diseases of the eye. 

Bear in mind that little phial of nitrate of silver, for, 
under Providence, it brought a murderer to the gallows. 

I set off briskly for my twelve mile walk about noon. On 
my road over the moor I passed the Cottage Inn ; the sign 
was legible then, and it told how John Galt provided good 
entertainment for man and beast — the house looking far 
more suited to travellers of the latter species than the 


The Doctors Story. 


71 


former. It looked, indeed, nearly as woe-begone then as it 
does now, and as if few wayfarers cared to accept Mr. John 
Galt’s offer. This was the case, I learned afterward; for 
the house had a bad name, though I had been too short a 
time in the neighborhood to hear of it. How far that repu- 
tation was deserved you shall presently judge. In the 
meantime, picture me striding bravely up the hill, now and 
then having to make a detour upon the moor to avoid an un- 
usually formidable snowdrift. I reached Herneford all right 
—for so the cluster of cottages which was my destination 
was named,after a local spirit supposed to haunt the woods— 
and on arriving there I found more work to do than I ex- 
pected. There was, moreover, a young woman, who, with 
a consideration for her medical man not often shown by her 
sex in such cases, took the opportunity of presenting her 
husband with another baby, and so saved me a special 
journey. All this made me very late, and had there been 
any accommodation in Herneford I might have been tempted 
to stay. As it was, I made up my mind for the walk, trust- 
ing in Providence. But before I went, I looked carefully 
over our small surgery, which was in an attic room in the 
cottage, and regarded with superstitious reverence by the 
inhabitants. These may seem trivial details, but, as you 
will see, they are essential to my story. At the surgery, 
amongst others, I did three things : 1. I found more of the 
nitrate of silver solution than I expected, so I merely filled 
up the small bottle and replaced the little phial in its case. 
2. I had entertained some suspicion of the goodness of a 
certain acid supplied us, and finding an old bottle of it on 
an obscure shelf, I put it in my pocket to take home and 
test the strength. 3. I found the ring of the large brass 
syringe we kept there was broken ; the syringe worked per- 
fectly well, but the ring should be mended, and I pocketed 
it also for that purpose. I need mention nothing else the 
silver solution, the acid, and the syringe are all the details 
with which I need trouble you. 

I started off at a brisk pace, and even as I did so, I could 
feel the wind rising ; and I had not gone above a hundred 
yards or so when I felt a Hake of snow fall on my face. 


72 


Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 


That ought to have warned me ; but I was somewhat stub- 
born and self-willed, and I determined at all hazards to 
persevere. Night fell, but neither moon nor friendly stars 
shone out, and presently I found myself in the midst of a 
heavy snow-storm. For some time I managed to keep to 
the track — at least, so I imagined ; but at length I became 
conscious that I had lost it, though I flattered myself that 
I was blundering on in the right direction. For a little 
time the snow-storm seemed to slacken ; at all events, I was 
able to make some progress. After a short time I felt 
myself getting drowsy ; but I knew it would be death to 
stop ; and then again the flakes came down heavier than 
ever, and I could hardly make headway at all against the 
driving wind and drifting snow. I was plodding feebly on, 
when suddenly, above the noise of the storm. I heard a 
sound that, cold as I was, seemed to chill me through and 
through. It was a wild, loud scream — a man’ s, I concluded ; 
for it was strangely strong and hoarse, and it continued 
until suddenly it was broken off sharply, and I heard no 
more. Something had stopped it, or, I argued, a turn of 
the wind might have suddenly swept the sound away from 
me. 

It was sufficiently appalling, and on flrst hearing it I 
started violently and dropped my stick, which, in the thick 
snow, I was unable to find. What terrible scene was being 
enacted on that wild moor on such a night ? What criminal 
was trusting to the white snow to hide his crime ? I nerved 
myself for an effort, and struggled on wildly for what 
seemed a long time ; and at last I came against a door half 
covered with the drifted snow, and almost at the same 
moment my foot struck against something in the snow, 
and stooping down, I picked up, to my intense astonish- 
ment, the stick I had dropped an hour ago. Close to the 
door was a narrow window, through ^which I could see a 
faint light, and in an instant I recognized three terrible 
facts connected with my situation. 

In the first place, I had walked for hours, and had only 
covered the two miles which ‘separated John Galt’s from 
Herneford. I knew it was the house, for I could feel the 


The Doctor's Story. 


73 


sign above the low door. In the second place, I had 
passed close to it an hour or more ago, as my stick proved, 
and therefore must be wandering in a circle. In the third 
place — and this fact was^ the most terrible — the awful 
scream I had heard must, humanly speaking, have come 
from some one inside the lonely inn. 

But whatever might have happened, I must have shelter, 
for I could not have struggled a yard farther ; so I knocked 
loudly at the door, and after 'some delay it was opened. 

The man who let me in — I can say now it was John Galt — 
was most anxious, apparently, I should not see his face. 
He had a large comforter round the lower part of it ; 
and a hat slouched over the forehead while the horn- 
lantern he carried gave out a dim, uncertain light. 

“ What d’you want?” he said, in a hoarse voice. 

I would have given a great deal to have been able to turn 
away ; but better the possible dangers inside the house 
than the merciless storm without, so I answered : 

“ A night’s lodging. I can get no farther in this snow.” 

The man hesitated a good deal ; certainly an innkeeper, 
this, who did not care much for custom ; and at last he 
said gruthy : 

“ Come in.” 

With a shiver that was not owing to the cold, I crossed 
the threshold, and found myself in a low room, very roughly 
and scantily furnished, with a doorway in a corner leading 
out of it to the upper story. I could see also by the dim 
light a few rough shelves, with some bottles and pewter 
pots upon them. Still keeping his face as much as possible 
in shadow, but still, I could see, intently watching me, he 
took down a bottle and a wineglass, and then saying 
brusquely, “This road; I sleep here,” led the way up 
stairs. As he strode up, he said, as if an afterthought, 
“And there’s no one else in the house”— pleasant news 
from such a man. I followed him, and was shown into a 
small room containing a bed, a chair, and a table, and a 
small press near the door. Galt put the lantern on the 
table, filled out a wineglass of the liquor, and saying 
“ Whisky,” handed it to me. Strange to say, he retained 

I 


74 Christmas -Eve in a Liyht-house. 

the bottle, which at once aroused my suspicions ; so I 
drank, and then only nodded. He gruffly said ‘ ‘ Good- 
night,” and strode out of the room. The moment his back 
was turned I discharged the whisky, which I had retained 
in my mouth, into the basin ; at all events, I thought, I 
would not be drugged. 

Two things were very noticeable : his anxiety not to be 
seen himself, and his evident desire to watch me that I 
should see nothing more of the house than he chose to show 
me— should not take a step into any room or passage other 
than those through which he led me. He succeeded in 
both, for I never, even when he offered me the whisky, had 
a fair look at his face ; and, at the same time, I felt that 
he watched me narrowly. 

I felt very sleepy from cold and exposure ; but I had 
made up my mind that I must not go to sleep, or my life 
would be in danger. I felt that as I stepped over the 
threshold, and it increased upon me every moment ; a con- 
clusion arrived at on insufficient premises, you will say, 
but, nevertheless, one that I never staid to argue with 
myself ; a conclusion jnstified, too, after these discoveries. 

After putting out the whisky, which, as I anticipated, 
smelt strongly of opium, I tried to fasten the door, but 
found no lock or means of doing so — merely a latch. This 
was not reassuring ; and I made another discovery shortly 
which alarmed me still more. The table, I found, formed 
part of the bed. The chair, as it seemed at first, was a seat 
imitating one let into the wall, into which also the press 
was fastened. There was nothing to drag against the door, 
and nothing to turn into an offensive weapon ; for there 
was neither fender or fire-irons, and the wash-bowl was tin 
and very small. I was caught in a death-trap, and, 
scarcely dared to breathe a prayer that I might get out of 
it safely, so impossible did it seem. For some time I was 
stunned ; and if Galt had come up then I should have been 
an easy victim. I seemed in imagination to die, and the 
shock nearly deprived me of my senses. 

But I kept awake, and gradually got accustomed to the 
situation, awful as it was. I seemed resigned to the strug- 


75 


The Doctor's Story. 

gle which I felt must come sooner or later, and my mind 
began to wander vaguely round the subject. I can recall 
my thoughts now ; but I hardly know in what order they 
succeeded each other then. 

Galt would be sure to be armed ; moreover, he had evi- 
dently the strength of a giant, and I was by no means 
strong, and had nothing whatever with which to defend 
myself except (the absurdity struck me even then) a 
syringe ! A syringe and a bottle of diluted acid. You 
smile at the idea now, as, even in the horror of the moment, 
I could smile at it then ; and yet, as the event proved, the 
two together made a weapon not to be despised. The syringe, 
as I have said before, worked perfectly well, and only 
wanted the ring-handle fastening. It was a very powerful 
instrument, and would carry a strong, continuous douche 
of any fluid within it a continuous distance, spreading as it 
went further, just jas shot spreads out of a gun. As for the 
acid, if once a man received any of that, or even the spray, 
in his eyes, he would certainly be blinded for some hours, 
if not for life— the latter a contingency which, in my des- 
perate situation then, I did not for a moment consider. 

I do not recollect how the idea, which you will now have 
seized, flashed across my mind ; but I saw that if only I 
could get an opportunity of syringing Mr. Galt’s eyes in a 
wholly non-professional way, I had a very good chance of 
escaping. The only difficulty was how to get the chance of 
applying my novel charge when the attack came ; and, 
though it seems simple enough now, it cost me many min- 
utes of agonizing thought before I could determine it on 
that night. 

The storm had abated, and the moon was shining out, 
flooding the room— for the window had no blind— with a 
stream of silver. It behooved me, in the first place, then, 
to make up some semblance of myself, and place it in the 
bed, and, in the second, to conceal myself where, unseen, I 
could get near my assailant. I could not get behind the 
door, for it opened right on to the press ; and, moreover, 
before my attack I was bound to be sure of my assailant s 
intention ; for my host might come to visit me in a friendly 


76 


Christmas-Em in a Light-house. 


way only, and I must be cautions. You laugh, as I can 
now, at such casuistry ; but it is a fact that I did go 
through that process of reasoning then, and acted upon it. 

There was a little space between the press and the bed. 
In that I crouched down, having arranged the bolster and 
my coat under the clothes to resemble, as far as I could 
manage it, a sleeping man. Then I took out my syringe 
and tried it very gently in the bottle of acid, and, with a 
beating heart, and pulses which seemed to sound all over 
the room, waited the event. 

My preparations had taken some time, and I was not 
kept long in suspense. Very shortly I heard a stealthy 
footfall on the stairs, which, step by step, approached my 
door, and then stopped. I forced myself (I don’t know 
how, now) to breathe heavily and regularly, as if in sleep, 
and, after a few moments’ hesitation, I felt, rather than 
heard, the door open. A slight jar against the press told 
me it was wide open, and that the spring was to come. 

I had no idea, you see, of the nature of the attack. 
Would Galt fire on me ? Would he spring upon the bed 
and smother me? Would he stab me or beat out my 
brains ? The catalogue, you will admit, has a certain inter- 
est for you now ; j adge how it affected me then. I heard, 
or fancied I heard, a heavier and more decided step than 
any which had been taken before, and I knew that the 
moment had come. 

I have seen performed most of the greatest operations of 
the day, here and on the Continent, and I have more than 
once witnessed a certain tremor and hesitation on the part 
of the surgeon just before the operation began. The mo- 
ment the knife touched the flesh, his nerves were steel, and 
the work was done as if by machinery. 

I do not talk boastingly when I say that, whereas when I 
listened to the footsteps and felt the door open, it was only 
by a superhuman effort I preserved myself from a dead 
faint ; yet, when I knew a second or two would end the 
affair one way or the other, my hand was Arm as a rock, 
and I held the syringe, charged, as coolly as I now hold 
this cigar, or as I should hold the knife at an operation. 


T7ie Doctor's Story, 


77 


Galt was breathing heavily ; but for a moment I heard 
him catch his breath in, and then, with a low growl, like a 
wild beast rushing at its food, he sprang forward, and, with 
a short crowbar, dealt a fearful blow at the place where, 
but for God’ s • mercy, my head would have been. Again 
and again he repeated his blows, not seeing, in the blind 
fury of murder, that they were falling harmless ; and then, . 
seemingly exhausted, he drew back, and, with wide-open, 
bloodshot eyes, gazed upon his handiwork. 

Then was my chance. The murderer crouched over the 
bed, with the moonlight full on his face, hardly a foot from 
me. In another minute he would have discovered his mis- 
take and seen me ; but steadily I raised the syringe, and, 
exactly at the time when his gaze turned to me, I gave him 
a full ounce of the acid straight in his eyes. 

I have no words to describe the fearful yell of astonish- 
ment, of fright, and of pain which he emitted. He would 
have faced either a blow, a stab, or a shot boldly enough, I 
dare say, though in any case he must have been terribly 
startled ; but I had used a weapon unknown in his armory, 
and the effect was like that of a thunderbolt. 

He gave a spasmodic leap into the air, the crowbar fell 
from his hands, and then he fell prone. Then, with a repe- 
tition of his awful yell, accompanied by a perfect hurricane 
of oaths and imprecations, he staggered to his feet, with the 
evident intention of finding his assailant. 

But it was in vain. The strong irritant had done its 
work, and he could not open his blighted eyes for a second. 
He was, indeed, blind ; and after a frantic rush against the 
press, in which he cut his forehead severely, he felt the 
door, and, staggering out, fell headlong down stairs. I 
heard the crash, and then all was still. 

Simultaneously with his fall I must have fainted ; and 
had Galt any accomplices, I must have fallen an easy vic- 
tim to them. At last I roused myself, and, still hearing no 
sound, ventured down stairs, the way through the front 
room being the only ineans of egress. I imagined my an- 
tagonist had gone out, but, at any rate, I knew he must be 
blinded stiU ; but, before I got down stairs, I could see him 


78 


Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 


lying flat on his face, his head buried in his arms. A bottle 
was thrown down beside him, and he was breathing ster- 
torously. He had evidently taken refuge from his agony 
in the stupor of drunkenness. 

I was passing lightly out, when it suddenly struck me 
that, except when I saw it in the moonlight, I had never 
•obtained a good view of my antagonist’s face. He had 
shaded it, as I said, coming in — it was terribly distorted 
when I saw it for that single moment — and I could not be 
certain of recognizing it ; while it was hidden on his arms 
now. I had blinded him, you will say, but I could not 
judge of the effect of the acid, nor how long it would last. 
At all events I determined to mark my friend, who was 
quite insensible, so that for ten days or so I should be able - 
to identify him. I took my little bottle of strong solution 
of nitrate of silver, and just under his handkerchief, at 
the back of his neck, I traced, with a camel’ s-hair pencil 
accompanying the solution, the flgure of a cross. You 
know the action of the sun upon salts of silver ; if his eyes 
recover quickly, I should still have something to identify 
my man by ; for I did not know then whether it was Galt 
or some lodger who had made the attempt on my life. I 
was, however, to meet my assailant again sooner than I ex- 
pected. 

* * ***** 

Immediately on reaching home, before I could see any 
one, I was called off to another case, which kept me till 
the evening of the next day. Arriving home then, I was 
told that Dr. Greenfleld had gone to an inquest of a man 
who had met his death at John Galt’s Inn. At John Galt’ s ! 
As you may imagine, I hurried off, and was just in time to 
hear my late adversary tell the following ingenious story, 
which revealed to me, and to me alone, the fearful extent 
of his crimes. 

The body of a man had been found in the Inn with his 
skull broken in by a crowbar. That John Galt admitted to 
have done, but said it was in self-defense, and that his as- 
sailant had thrown vitriol, or some such substance, into his 
eyes. In proof of which, there he was, nearly blind, with his 
eyes in a terrible state of inflammation. 


The. Doctor's Story. 


79 


That plausible story, which he had evidently concocted 
in desperation, trusting to the chapter of accidents not to 
bring his real antagonist forward, would have probably 
brought about his discharge ; but I stepped forward, and 
requested to be examined, saying I could throw some light 
on the subject. There was a general murmur of astonish- 
ment, and even the doctor turned to me (remember I had 
seen no one) and asked what I could know about the 
affair. 

However, it was impossible to overlook the offer of such 
evidence, and I was sworn. I then told, carefully and cir- 
cumstantially, the story you have just heard, when, to my 
astonishment and disgust, I could see that it was looked 
upon with a good deal of suspicion. You see, I was quite 
a stranger in the place ; and, if you look at the balance of 
probabilities, Galt’s story was in some ways better than 
mine. His solicitor ridiculed my whole narrative, but said 
he could believe the strange use of the syringe, &c., if I 
had any evidence that I was ever in the place. I had come 
back, too, and gone off again, and he asked was I not wan- 
dering on the moor all the time. In fact^ I saw he was 
making an impression ; and it seemed also that the jury 
were unwilling to condemn a neighbor on such extraordin- 
ary evidence given by a stranger. If I could prove I was 
in the cottage— and Galt, who could hardly see, swore I had 
not been there— the story would have a very different com- 

^^Suddenly the mark I had made upon the murderer flashed 
across me, and I brought it forward as proof. With con- 
siderable difficulty the coroner allowed Galt’s neck' to be 
bared ; but amid loud murmurs, and to my horror no niark 
was to be found. Had it been removed \ I felt certain it 
had not. It had only been covered up, and exposure to 
the sunlight would bring it out. I demanded that Galt’s 
neck should be turned to the winter sun, then shining 
through the windows, explaining as weU as I could how it 
was the mark had not appeared. ^ 

A.fter much objection, this was done, and then, amid a 
scene of indescribable excitement, the sun gradually acted 


80 


Chrisimas-Eve in a Light-house. 


upon the salts of silver, and by degrees the place blackened, 
till slowly and surely the mark came out ; and there was 
the accusing cross, a silent witness to the truth of my story, 
and a sure condemnation of him who would fain have been 
a double murderer. 

‘It is a conjurer’s trick,’ cried the solicitor, angrily, while 
Galt stood stunned and puzzled, and the people leant 
eagerly forward to catch a glimpse of the mysterious 
mark. 

‘No,’ said the coroner, ‘it is no trick. That cross is the 
handwriting of Providence.’ 

* ****** 

I may finish my story by telling you that before the cross 
faded from Mr. John Galt’s neck, he was punctually 
hanged. 

At the conclusion of the thrilling tale so ably recounted 
by the Doctor, it was proposed to toast St. Nicholas with a 
hearty bumper, and the idea was about to be carried into effect 
with acclamation, when a quiet voice came from alow stool 
near the fire, and the strange little gentleman who had ac- 
companied the party asked to be allowed to add a closing 
link to the genial chain of stories they had been engaged in 
forging, and amidst the clinking of glasses as they passed 
around, he spoke thus : 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE stranger’s STORY — “ AFTER MANY DAYS.” 

“The whole town said, with scarcely a dissenting voice, 
that Andrew Walter’s misfortunes, and this last misfortune 
in particular, were a judgment upon him. For, as the 
reader may have noticed, communities have usually much 
less diflaculty in perceiving disasters to be judgments than 
they have in perceiving prosperity to be a just reward. 

One might have been disposed to call the town a village 


The Stranger's Story. 


81 


had it not from time immemorial returned a member to par- 
liament, But in the pride of that distinction East Wyke- 
ham held itself far above villages. 

We are not sure that the East Wykehamites are yet 
agreed as to which of their own sins it is that has called 
down the judgment which has fallen upon them in the loss 
of their member by the new Reform Bill. In fact the great 
majority of the pure and incorruptible consider that by the 
disfranchisement of their borough a gross injustice has been 
done them, and that they have sustained a definite and 
incalculable pecuniary loss for which they have an equit- 
able claim for compensation from the State. 

Should my listeners be disposed to ask further, what man- 
ner of place is EastWykeham ? We are sorry we cannot say 
it is pretty well, or pretty lively, or pretty clean, or indeed 
pretty anything, unless we say it is pretty nearly the em- 
bodiment of dullness and stupidity. It is a place that has 
fallen out of the track of modern life and been passed by in 
the march of modern improvements. When other towns 
subscribed for railways, East Wykeham petitioned against 
them, stuck to its canal, and now beholds with envy the 
main line that passes at eight miles’ distance, and with dis- 
gust its own slimy, weed-grown, deserted wharves. [East 
Wykeham is trying now to get up a branch line.] When 
that new'-fangled, dangerous explosive, called gas, was dis- 
covered, East Wykeham stuck to oil and candles, by which 
alone to this night its streets are illuminated. [East Wyke- 
ham is negotiating now for a second hand gasometer, retorts, 
&c., outgrown at the neighboring junction.] But it would 
have to be a very bad light indeed that would not be good 
enough to exhibit the contents of the High street windows, 
or the grass that grows down the middle of the High street 
itself. 

The tradesmen, who are much given to standing at their 
doors and talking to each other, chuckle and rejoice over 
the extremely small sum it takes to keep their streets in 
good repair, and on the whole they don’t object to grass. 

As for society, there are the usual two doctors, two law- 
yers (one of whom was never known to have a client), the 


82 


Christmas- Eve in a Light-house. 


vicar, two or three dissenting preachers, two grocers, two 
drapers, two tailors, and the rest ; in all numbering a 
population, according to the last census, of we really can- 
not say precisely how few. 

At any rate they have never been too few for the develop- 
ment among themselves of every known variety of evil 
speaking and uncharitableness ; nor were they, as I be- 
gan by saying, too many to agree in the case of Andrew 
Walter that his misfortunes were a judgment upon him, 
and that to sympathise with him would be little short of 
impious. 

If he had not sown the wind, they argued, he would not 
have reaped the whirlwind. If he had brought up his boy 
better, as they, for example, had each of them brought up 
theirs (and as he, having only one boy, surely might have 
done), he would not then have been lamenting the lad’s 
loss at sea. 

It was an established axiom at East Wykeham that going 
to sea was about equivalent to going to penal servitude. 
And though a bench of magistrates may be found here and 
there to give a man three weeks’ hard labor for picking up 
an apple, no one gets penal servitude if he has done abso-^ 
lutely nothing to deserve it. Andrew Walter, a man liv- 
ing on his own land, had sent his only son to sea, the ex- 
cuse being that the boy had a liking for it, and had no taste 
for farming. But East Wykeham knew better than to set 
any value on such an excuse as this. A lad living in an 
inland county clearly had no right to have a taste for the 
sea. To have such a taste showed a natural depravity of 
character, which a judicious father would have subdued 
with the proper number of stripes. And as he had not sub- 
dued it, it was only in the nature of things that he should 
hear in due time that the ship, the “All is Well,” had 
gone down with all hands, and should see himself left with- 
out the one who should have been the prop of his age, and 
the help of his motherless young daughters after he should 
have gone. 

Neither were the townsfolk pitiful as regarded that mat- 
ter of the bond. He had much better have never learned to 


The Stranger's Story. 


83 


write at all than shown such fatal facility in writing his 
name. What matter that it was his own brother for whom 
he had become bound ? Likely enough the brother might 
have paid his debts, and everybody had their due if he 
had had his health. But he had never known what health 
was for years, — a puny, sickly young man who never ought 
to have got married ; — and as a matter of course he had 
died, deeply involved at his mill, and leaving wife and 
family quite unprovided for. — whom, people did say, An- 
drew Walter had maintained ever since his brother’s death ; 
which, if true, was clearly reckless extravagance. Could 
any one wonder, reckoning up the loss he had on his 
brother’s death, the expense ever since of maintaining the 
family, the cost of his son’s vessel, and of the valuable 
cargo with which he had freighted her, that all these 
things together had found the end of his resources ? The 
latest report indeed was that he had just failed to effect a 
further mortgage on his property ; that the present mort- 
gagee, who had given notice to foreclose at the end of the 
present quarter, could not be pacified or paid, and that 
there must be a sale. 

‘And so,’ concluded Mr. Botley, the grocer, to Mr. Skin- 
ner, the draper (each of whom had a bill of a few shillings 
against poor Andrew Walter) — ‘and so it is one makes bad 
debts, and loses one’s money by other folks’ fault, as 
doesn’t care to work so hard for it.’ 

‘Just so,’ said Mr. Skinner. 

‘ And no doubt we shall have our fine gentleman here in 
a few days,’ remarked Mr. Botley again, ‘to offer us a half 
a crown in the pound.’ 

‘And,’ said Skinner, ‘if he comes I shall be sure to give 
him a piece of my mind ; I shall be sure to do it.’ 

Andrew Walter’s house pleasantly overlooked the town, 
both house and inmates being happily lifted above their 
neighbors’ spite and unfriendliness. Though— not to be 
too hard upoi> the town— we will bear in mind that it is 
not always the people who say the unkindest words who do 
the unkindest deeds, and will hope that East Wykeham, 
too, should Andrew Walter ever have to ask it for bread, 
will at least not give him a stone. 


84 


Christmas -Eve in a Lighthouse. 


If, as the winter day closed in, any of yon could have 
walked up the well-kept gravelled path, defended choice 
shrubs, and could have stood at the bright window, whose 
panes flashed beneath the firelight, this is what you would 
have seen inside as snug a room as you could wish to look 
upon. 

First, a man somewhat past the middle age, well knit, 
and sinewy, with a face kindly and pleasant, though not 
without lines of care, and at present full of perplexity. 
He sits with his elbow on his knee, and his chin upon his 
hand, looking steadily into the Are, in which he does not 
seem to read any clear answer to the question he is ask- 
ing. This is Andrew Walter. 

Next, a girl of about eighteen, but looking older and as 
if a premature responsibility had sobered her merry face. 
She sits at a table which is covered with evergreens, and 
is busy stitching ivy leaves on strips of cardboard which in 
a little while will be shaped into letters. This is Maggie, 
Andrew’ s eldest daughter. 

Next, another girl, some four years younger, wonder- 
fully like her sister, but more like her father. She, too, is 
busy constructing, with wire and string to help, a long 
rope or ropes of leafy green. This is Edith, the second 
daughter. 

Lastly, the Mite ; as Andrew often calls her sadly, ‘ the 
widower’s mite.’ She is a wee maiden of only six years 
old, but persuades herself she, too, is usefully busy, with 
needle and thread, making a necklace of the scarlet holly- 
berries. Her name is Lucy. 

The girls, it is to be noticed, are all in black, seemingly 
of the newest and deepest; and there appears to be but little 
speaking amongst them. 

One could not look upon the man without feeling that 
he was a man of strong passions and affections ; nor on the 
girls without feeling they were all in all to each other and 
to him. , 

Until within the last year the current of his life had 
flowed smoothly and prosperously. He had but one 
great sorrow— the loss of his wife ; and that sorrow hav- 


85 


The Stranger's Story. 

ing befallen him when his little maid was born, had been 
softened by time, though not (and not to be) forgotten. 
Now, however, he was indeed in troubled waters. That 
town’s talk about money matters and an impracticable 
mortgage was in the main correct. He had, in one way or 
other, lost nearly all he had. And at his time of life it was 
hard to have to devise plans of keeping the wolf from the 
door. All kinds of pecuniary loss, loss of position, loss of 
comforts and luxuries, were, nevertheless, but deprivations 
of things he might hope to win back again ; or, failing that, 
he could face the want of them with manly fortitude and 

resignation. ^ 

The one loss to which he could not bring himself to be 
submissive (being loss of that which no strength of arm or 
activity of brain could ever bring him back again), was the 
loss of his boy. ‘ The sea, indeed, shall give up its dead,’ 
he said to himself, ‘ but not to me.’ 

He took from his pocket-book and read once more the 
account, cut out from a Calcutta newspaper, of the great 
catastrophe in the Hoogly which had bereaved him. It 
gave, as far as was known, the names of all vessels lost, 
with the port to which they belonged, the captain’s^ name, 
and a brief description of the nature of the damage in each 
case. The entry in which he was interested read thus : 


Name of Ship. 

Of what Port. 

Name of Owner. 

Name of Captain. 

Eemarks. 

All is Well. 

Not known. 

Not known. 

Supposed 

J. E. Walter. 

Crew and cargo 
all lost. 


Now his son James had sailed from England not for Cal- 
cutta but Hong Kong, and it was clear he must have 
encountered such terrible weather as had first driven him 
far out of his course, and, at the last, compelled him to run 
for the Hoogly, just at the time when that river was a 
vortex of destruction to every craft that entered it. 

In addition to the particulars got from the newspapers, 
he had obtained, through the consular agency, this further 
information: The evidence on which the name of the 
captain had been published as ‘supposed J. E. Walter’ 


Christmas- Em in a Light-house. 


was that, entangled amongst the wreck of the ‘All is Well’ 
had been found a portion of a captain’ s coat, in the breast- 
pocket of which had been found several papers, all of 
which were quite illegible except one empty envelope, the 
address of which had been deciphered as ‘Captain J. E, 
Walter, the “All is Well,” Cape Town.’ The English 
post -marks were* ‘East Wykeham,’ and ‘London,’ date 
illegible. This envelope Andrew Walter had procured to 
be forwarded to him, and had found the hand-writing upon 
it to be his own. After seeing which he had given up all 
the faint hope to which he had clung, and had treasured 
this old envelope''' as the last link of communication which 
he knew to have passed between him and his son. 

Restoring the piece of newspaper and the envelope to his 
pocket-book, he lit a candle, left the girls at their work, 
and went into an adjoining room. Leaning against the 
wall was a package wrapped in matting, small, but some- 
what heavy. The contents, when unwrapped and placed 
upon the table, proved to be a plain, white marble slab, 
bearing this inscription : 

‘ In remembrance of 
Jambs Edwabd Walter, 

only son of Andrew Walter, of this place), who was drowned in the River 
Hoogly, Bengal, during the great hurricane of 185-. Aged 22 years. 

Rev. xxi. 1.’ 

He had chosen to append this reference to a'text of scrip- 
ture, rather than the text itself. Those who cared to turn 
up the passage in their Bibles, as they sat in church, would 
see that the comfort he found in it was in keeping before 
him the thought that though hereafter there should be a 
new heaven, and a new earth, there should be ‘ no more 
sea.’ 

The father called the girls in for a minute to look at the 
slab, and they read the inscription silently and tearfully. 
Then he covered it up again, and they went back. 

The stone had been worked elsewhere and sent home to 
him that he might himself (as he had wished) superintend 
its erection over his own pew. Thus he and his daughters 


The Stranger’s Story. 


87 


had each a duty in church to-morrow ; his, to go early 
with the mason and put up this stone ; theirs, to go later 
and help the vicar’s wife to affix the Christmas decorations ; 
for the morrow was the Eve of Christmas Day. And, more- 
over, there was one little chaplet of cypress and yew which 
Maggie and Edith had prepared to hang upon their brother’ s 
monument. 

‘I remember,’ said Andrew, ‘teaching him all about 
India, and the Ganges, and this very Hoogly itself, years 
and years ago ; little thinking— ah ! little thinking.’ 

The girls only shook their heads gently and sighed. 

‘ And I doubt and fear it was my teaching him so much 
geography that filled him full of longing to see the world, 
and the ways of strange people, and first made him im- 
patient of this dull place.’ 

‘ Impatient of it, but never of us, papa. Let us be thank- 
ful for that,’ said Maggie. 

‘Tired of us? No, indeed,’ said the father, with proud 
affection. ‘ I have known some sad days, and I doubt 
there are more in store for all of us ; but the saddest day 
of all would be that on which I should first think my chil- 
dren were tired of their father or each other.’ 

A little hand had stolen into his as he spoke and a little 
mouth had been upturned to kiss him, while two other 
faces had turned to him with looks more eloquent than 
words. 

He took the young child upon his knee and wound her 
curls about his rough, strong fingers, as he spoke again. 
‘And I won’t say that he was wrong to choose the sea. 
Could any lad have done better at it than he has done? 
Would not his masters have made him captain at twenty- 
one of their own vessel if I had not bought him a ship 
myself, and freighted it ? ’ 

‘ And he never once,’ said Edith, ‘ spent a holiday any- 
where but here.’ 

‘ I wonder if it was the name that did it,’ pondered 
Andrew, who was not without his superstitions. ‘ I won- 
der if I tempted Providence when I would call the ship no 
other name than “All is Well.” ' 


88 


Christmas-Eve in a Light-Tiouse. 


‘ The ships that went down in the storm that day had 
names of all kinds,’ said Maggie, ‘and one name had as 
little protection in it as another.’ 

There, as the outer darkness deepened, they sat by the 
fire and talked. The little one on Andrew’ s knee. 

It seemed a transition almost from night to day when 
they passed from talk of the lost boy to talk of the mere 
loss of money, so much had the greater trouble exceeded 
the less. But it was not till Maggie had peeped over her 
father’ s arm into the small face and said ‘ she’ s asleep,’ that 
they spoke quite freely of their pecuniary difficulties. The 
father had taken his elder girls wholly into his confidence, 
knowing that he could trust them. And they, seeing them- 
selves so trusted, were cheerfully making the least of all 
difficulties. 

The solicitor through whom all Andrew’s money trans- 
actions had hitherto been arranged, was an old schoolfellow 
of his, whose probity and kindness of heart he had long 
known. His position was rather that of an intimate and 
affectionate family friend than a legal adviser. But the 
letters of this friend, which had of late been many, had, in 
spite of all his wishes to serve, come to be looked on almost 
with dread. Their appearance and their prim little seal 
were well known by all the family. Even little Lucy knew 
so well that these letters were different from other letters, 
that she had a way of propping them up and lecturing 
them seriously before they were opened, and sometimes 
even went the length of whipping them very severely, with 
a view to impressing upon them that they really must be 
good and try to please papa when he opened them— a mode 
of treatment which had as yet produced, to her regret, no 
salutary effect. 

Andrew had written to this friend a few days before mak- 
ing some final suggestions towards the renewal of the mort- 
gage ; and though he had but the faintest hope of the reply 
being such as he could wish, his heart sickened that he had 
got no reply at all. 

‘To-morrow there will surely be a letter,’ he said ; and if 
there is I shall quite dread to read it.’ 


TheStrangef s Story. 


89 


For indeed it depended on this letter whether they slionld 
stay in their old home, or go out at once into the world and 
seek another. 

‘But now, Maggie,’ he said, ‘as this may be the last 
Christmas we shall have here, we must not keep it quite 
like a common day, even though we cannot keep it as we 
used to do. Put on your bonnet and go into the town with 
me. Poor little Mite, how soundly she sleeps; see, she 
has not waked by my putting her on Edie’ s knee. 

As the door closed gently on them, however, up sprang 
little Loo and drew aside the curtain, peeping after them, 
and laughing. 

‘Pve never been asleep a minute, Edie, she said, ‘only 
pretending.’ 

Whereupon Edie, having first assumed what she sup- 
posed would be the appropriate manner of a lady of about 
fourscore, talked down to the young deceiver from that 
great elevation, in an impressive way, and having wrung 
for Martha, inexorably told that maid to take her off to 
bed. 

Then she herself set to work again with busy fingers 
amongst her holly leaves, her ivory and laurel, until she 
had got length enough, as she thought, of bright green 
rope. After which she gave the finishing touches to Mag- 
gie’s letters, and fixing a white table cover against the 
piano, pinned them on it, — the sacred monogram 

iHs 

to try their effect against the clean white linen of the 
communion table. Last of all, making haste, she swept 
away her greenery and had a cheerful, homely supper on 
the table when fatther and Maggie came in with the heavy 
night-rime hanging on them. 

They had made the little purchases for the Christmas 
Day, buying on a humbler scale than usual, and, as Mag- 
gie told her, had sent to the widow's house at the mill 
exactly the same as they had bought for themselves, for 
Andrew’s dainties would have had no relish had he thought 
those who were so near to him, and had been so deal to his 
dead brother, did not share in them. 


90 


CJirisimas-Evc in a Light-house. 


Next morning Lncy was up early, and the season 
in distinction to the present being one of those mild 
and open ones which have of late taken the place 
of the severe Christmases of our fathers, she ran 
out and amused herself, as children like to do, by digging. 

The place she chose for digging was just inside the garden 
gate, where she was accustomed to wait on fine mornings to 
get the letters from the postman. 

The garden gate was not quite visible from any of the 
windows of the house, the path being curved ; but Edie, 
running out betimes (for they were all early risers), found 
the child busy there. She had excavated a very neat little 
grave, and was just giving the finishing touches to her 
work. 

‘ Who are you going to bury to-day. Loo f she asked. 

‘Oh, I know,’ said the child; ‘you go along. It’s not 
you ; it’s a wickeder thing than you.” • 

‘ I see the postman coming round the corner,’ said Edie ; 

‘ run in as soon as you get the letters ;’ and so she left her. 

In another minute the child had the letters from the post- 
man, — some four or five ; and in an instant (as soon as his 
back was turned), had selected the wicked one (the London 
letter with the prim little seal, which she had so often 
whipped in vain), had pitched it into the little grave, deftly 
filled in the earth, and made all smooth above it, then ran 
into the house with the rest of the letters, out of breath. 

‘Nothing again,’ said Andrew, as he turned them over. 

‘ But I doubt no news is not good news this time. Franklin 
would have written, I am sure, if he had had anything to 
write which would do us good. Sure you have not dropped 
any letters. Loo V But when he looked round he found 
the child had slipped out of the room, and nothing more 
was said when she returned. Neither he nor the girls 
indeed made any mention of the letter which had been 
expected, or of the subject to which it should have referred ; 
but that subject weighed not the less heavily on all of them. 

To each of them it was clear now that in this matter of 
the mortgage nothing could be done, that the money must 
be paid, and that to pay it there must be a sale, and they 
must leave the dear old house. As they passed from room 


Tilt Strangtfs Story. 


91 


to room that morning, or from walk to walk in the garden, 
a feeling grew upon them all that they were taking farewell 
looks of all. And as the girls decorated the pictures and 
mirrors with the Christmas holly, they thought sadly that 
when Christmas came again other hands would cut the 
shrubs and trim the rooms for other people. 

Happily those duties which lay nearest to each of them 
were sufficient in great mea-sure to distract their minds from 
dwelling too much upon the future. Let come what would 
to-morrow, to-day had its own work waiting for each of 
them. 

While the girls were busied therefore about their house- 
hold morning work, doubly diligent that they might hurry 
to the church, Andrew Walter went with the mason and 
saw the memorial he had provided for his son erected over 
his own pew. 

This did not occupy him long, and he was soon at home 
again, walking briskly in his fields, perhaps hoping to find 
in weariness of limb some rest for over anxiety of spirit. 

As for the fine old church, when the bright sanlight 
l^oured in through the many-colored window panes, and 
fell on the sweet patient faces of these girls as they wreathed 
the pulpit, the communion rails, and the grand columns of 
the nave— as they decked the holy table itself with living 
green and scarlet, and expended all their loving ingenuity 
and taste in the decoration of the quaint old rood screen, it 
was by no means a place of gloom. Even the timed-stained 
monuments upon the walls — the ancient knight and lady 
still uplifting stony hands in silent prayer— the grotesque 
faces of the corbels all seemed to wear a brighter, tenderer 
aspect under the influence of the Christmas green. The old 
dead stone and the young animated faces seemed alike 
touched with a new and deeper expression under the in- 
fluence of the gracious season and the work that in itself 
was surely a sort of worship. 

As column after column was finished and arch after arch 
showed its rich free outline in bright green ; as one after 
the other the branching candelabra grew into graceful 
bushes of leaves and fruit; the sun sank down and the 


92 CJiristmas-JEve in a LigM-house. 

shadows crept out. Then when all was finished and the 
old sexton, with one solitary candle, was sweeping up the 
scattered fragments from the fioor, the vicar’s wife, and the 
rest of those who had been at work, shook hands and 
parted. 

When all the rest had gone, however, Maggie and her 
sisters stayed behind. And with them stayed their cousin 
Minnie from the mill, a girl of about Maggie’s own age, 
who mourned for the lost sailor lad with a bitterness that 
was intensified by thinking that she had let him go when 
last they parted with her love still unconfessed. 

The girls sat for a while all silent in the family pew. 
Maggie held little Lucy in her arms and Edith rested with 
her head on Minnie’s knee. The moon rose and poured its 
light with a glory of crimson and gold full on them and on 
the new marble slab, beneath which Maggie sat with her 
face buried on the young child’s shoulder. 

It was Minnie who was organist at the church, and being 
there she must needs play over one of the anthems of the 
morrow. Edith went with her to blow the bellows. For a 
while Maggie continued to sit with bowed head, still weep- 
ing, but soothed and calmed by the strains. 

The hymn was ‘Hark the herald angels sing ;’ and as the 
player forgot her sorrow more and more in the exhultation 
of the music, — as the notes swelled more and more jubilant, 
filling the grand old church with melody, the little voice of 
Lucy rose in Maggie’s ear singing the well-known words, 
and Maggie herself unconsciously joined in them and lifted 
up her head. 

There in front of her, clearly defined by the moon, stood her 
brother — the dead brother who had been lost at sea. Mag- 
gie neitlmr screamed nor fainted. He had been so entirely 
present in her mind— she had as yet been so wholly unable 
to think of him as anything but the biTglit, cheerful brother 
of all her life, that to see him there seemed at first onlv 
natural. Then in a moment, however, the recollection of all 
that had befallen in the last mournful months flashed up. 
No fear came with the recollection ; only an intense sur- 
prise. Why should she fear, if even this were the spirit of 


The Stranger’’ s Story. 


93 


her much-loved brother? She clasped her little child 
(whose face was turned away) more closely to her, and 
leaning forward in the pew, she shaded her eyes from the 
moon and looked steadily and earnestly into the face. 

The hands and arms of the figure came forward, stretch- 
ing towards her in the pew. A voice came from the figure : 
‘Maggie, it is I;’ and in an instant another voice — the 
voice of Lucy — screamed, ‘ Oh, Maggie ! that is Jamie 1 
my own brother Jamie !’ and the child sprang from Mag- 
gie’s knee, and was in his arms. 

“And why should I have thought anything too hard for 
God? Why should I not have had faith that he who 
raised Lazarus would raise my brother too? Neither 
Martha nor Mary sorrowed more for their brother than I 
for mine.’ 

The words did not shape themselves ; but this, in all its 
fullness, was the thought that in a moment of time had 
passed through Maggie’s mind. Then she also was in her 
brother’s arms. For indeed it was he and none another, 
alive and well. 

Meanwhile, the music had ceased, less because the player 
had been interrupted by any noise, than by reason of that 
subtle instinct which so often tells, we knov/ not how, 
that something wonderful and strange, in, which we have an 
interest and a share, is happening near at hand. 

One moment more and Edith and Minnie also were cling- 
ing to him, sobbing for joy, and the secret of Minnie’s 
heart was a secret from him no longer. 

They all set down for awhile and looked at egch other 
with an exultation strangely mingled with doubt. Joy was 
so much stronger than curiosity, that none of them thought 
of asking any questions. It was enough that lie was re- 
stored to them : it mattered not how. 

At last he pointed to the new marble above the pew, and 
said, with a shaking voice— 

‘ Oh ! what grief it has been to you. We must have that 
down to-night.’ 

‘ It went up only this morning,’ said Maggie. 

‘Then you have not got the letter this morning,’ he 


94 


Christmas-Em in a Light-house. 


asked, ‘ which was sent to tell yon of my coming, and all 
about it ? Indeed I am sure you have not.’ 

‘No,’ said Maggie. 

‘ It was enclosed from London by Mr. Franklin.’ 

‘In a blue envelope with a little red seal,’ said Lucy; 

‘ and I buried it in the garden, because those letters have 
always been naughty, and vexed papa.’ 

In spite of all, what could they do but laugh at the 
child’s explanation? even were it only to make her lift up 
her head again and be less ashamed of her guilt. 

‘ The letter was to tell you how this sad, sad mistake has 
arisen, and to say that Mr. Franklin and I were coming 
down to spend, as we shall find it, the happiest Christmas 
we have ever known. You were to send and meet us at the 
Junction, and we were ’to have, been with you two hours 
ago, if we had not had to walk.’ 

‘ And have you seen father ?’ the girls asked. 

‘No ; he was not in the house. So I have left his old 
friend there, while I sought you and him. The organ was 
playing as I came to the church-door, and that told me 
where to find you. But let us make haste home to him.’ 

Andrew Walter was at home when they arrived, and had 
heard from the old lawyer the story of his son’ s return ; 
but had as yet not succeeded in convincing himself that the 
great joy was real. Not, indeed, until he had the young 
man in his arms did he fully believe it or dare to say, awe- 
stricken — 

‘ The sea has indeed given up its dead— given up its dead 
even to me.’ 

We will not dwell upon that meeting of father and son, 
neither of whom had ever known what it was to doubt or 
mistrust, or waver in his effection for the other. There are 
some moments of bliss so unalloyed, so great and so beyond 
the [force of mere language, that only the human heart 
(which responds alike in high and low, when the great mas- 
ter hand of Nature sweeps the chords), can perceive their 
perfectness. 

To give the necessary facts as briefly as possible, this was 
how the circumstantial evidence by which the young cap- 


The Stranger’s Story. 


96 


tain had been declared to be dead, and his ship lost, was 
shown to be worthless. 

Innocent of plagiarism as Andrew Walter had thought 
himself in choosing for his vessel the name ‘ All is Well,’ 
there was really another ship afloat, sailing from a German 
port, but owned by an English master, which bore the same 
name. When James Walter sailed into the harbor of Cape 
Town, he was amazed to read the name of his own craft as 
having arrived a week earlier from the Baltic. And having 
found out that this namesake of his vessel was still in port, 
he was not long before he sought her out, and made;acquaint- 
ance with her captain. The two vessels sailed after- 
wards from Cape Town on the same^day. Captain Jacobson 
bound for Calcutta, he himself for Hong Kong. Before 
parting they had,got;to like each other, and promised that on 
getting into port they would write and let each other know 
what sort of voyage they had. Walter distinctly remem- 
bered writing his own address in pencil inside an envelope 
which had contained his father’s letter received at Cape 
Town, and giving this to Jacobson. The next he heard of 
his poor friend was that his vessel and he were lost in the 
Hoogly. This he learnt from an Indian newspaper some- 
where in China, and saw that the captain was supposed to 
be himself, though how they had got his name he had never 
known till now. He had instantly written home to allay 
the fears of his family ; but by a strange fatality the mail 
steamer which bore his letter proved to be that very one 
which struck in the Red Sea, and whose bags were lost. 
Contrary winds had made his voyage home a long one, and 
he had arrived in London only the day before. Then when 
he called on their old friend, Mr. Franklin, he had, to his 
utter sorrow, learnt that he was still counted amongst the 
dead, and that these other troubles had fallen on them 
besides. Mr. Franklin had advised him not to come home 
that first night, but to write first, enclosing the letter under 
his own envelope, the hand-writing on which would help to 
save them from the shock of so sudden a joy. And this was 
the letter which Miss Lucy had so dexterously buried, 
and which, by the aid of a lantern and that young lady to 
point out the grave, they now exhumed. 


C7iristmas-Eve in a Light-house.. 


‘ Mine.’ said Mr. Franklin, ‘ you need not read ; for, as 
I said, it is only to tell you that the mortgage business is 
all settled in a way beyond all our hopes. The old sinner, 
as soon as he knew that the money was ready for him, of 
course turned around and was particularly anxious not to 
have it. 

‘But as he has given notice,’ exclaimed Jamie, ‘ he shall 
have it, whether he wants it or not. And, let me have one 
more voyage like this, then we will offer to lend him a lit- 
tle money ourselves, on equally as good security as he has 
had.’ 

For Jamie had disposed of his cargo in the China seas to 
unhoped for -advantage, and had come back freighted, he 
hoped, with wares which he could at once dispose of as 
profitably in England. 

Compared with this resurrection of the dead, and this 
recovery of lost wealth, other pleasures and surprises of 
that night were trivial. 

But, nevertheless, when the huge load of luggage arrived 
which had been brought ‘in a cart from the Junction, the 
unpacking of the boxes was a sight worth seeing. 

Jamie had forgotten nobody. Not to mention the quaint 
monsters in bronze and ivory, and the pictures from Japan 
and China, which were for no one in particular, there were 
the beautiful inlaid and carved workboxes for each of the 
girls (both at home and at the mill), there was the set of 
wonderfully-carved chess-men, and the extraordinary pipe 
for father ; there was a cage of brilliant birds, and a dog 
so small you might have almost called it microscopic, for 
the Mite ; there were endless shawls and silks to adorn the 
girls, and drive the townsfolk wild with envy,— in short, 
there were so many things rich and rare that the house be- 
fore half of them were unpacked wore the look of an ori- 
ental bazaar. 

‘Was it,’ he almost asked himself, ‘was it the solid 
ground he trod upon, or was it the air V as he ran with 
Minnie to her home, having wrapped her well in some of 
this new finery and loaded her and himself with presents 
for the poor widow and the children at the mill. 


The Strangers Story. 


97 


He could not stay there, nor anywhere. He hardly gave 
them all time to kiss him before he was off again, declaring 
he had fifty things to do that night and could not spare a 
minute apiece for doing them in. But he did not leave be- 
fore he had made them all understand’ they had to go to 
dinner at his father’s on the morrow. 

Then to the church, first finding Mr. Stonemason, who 
took down the lying monument, as he declared, with much 
greater pleasure than he had put it up. When down, 
the vicar, who had heard the news (as indeed all the town 
had), begged the stone to keep as a curiosity, and almost 
dislocated Jamie’s arm by way of expressing his own glad- 
ness. 

The ringers were gathering at the church as they came 
out, for in half an hour they would begin the peals of 
Christmas Eve. 

Said the vicar — ‘Now, my men, cannot you give us one 
special peal, first, for the lost who is found, and the dead 
who is alive again V 

Said the sexton, who was also chief ringer, — ‘We are two 
men short.’ 

Said Mr. Botley, the grocer, and Mr; Skinner, the dra- 
per, who were standing by — ‘We’ll take a rope apiece;’ 
for they were amateur bell-ringers, and could pull with a 
will, and had forgotten all their fears of half a crown in the 
pound from Andrew Walter. 

Whereupon he for whom the peal was meant, like the 
coward he.was not, took to his heels and ran home, seeing 
reason to fear that if he did not do so he might be carried 
shoulder-high. 

The clear voices of the bells overtook him' nevertheless 
before he was half-way home, and made him turn to look 
back upon the darkling town, blessing it and them. For 
never since the bells were cast had they sent forth a heartier 
peal than that they flung upon the air that night ; Botley 
and Skinner having doffed their coats and warmed to their 
work with mutual emulation. 

******* 

Mr. Franklin did not make it quite clear to Lucy either 


98 Christmas-Ene in a Light-house. 

that night or next day what had made him be so wicked 
as to write those vexatious letters to papa. But after din- 
ner next day — that is Christmas Day— when that young 
lady had almost danced him olf his legs — although, for an 
old gentleman, he did dance quite wonderfully — she so far 
repented of her past severity towards him as to promise 
that if he would write often she v^ould neither whip him in 
person nor whip his proxy, and that under no circum- 
stances would she ever again bury another of his letters, 
prematurely. 


CHAPTER IX. 

EPILOGUE — CHRISTMAS-EVE. 

The speaker ceased, and as the last echo of his voice died 
away upon the ears of his listeners, and released them from 
the spell-bound attention, with which they had regarded 
him, the grey light of the winter dawn was seen to be 
making its way through the narrow windows. It was 
“ Christmas morning,” and as each grasped the other by the 
hand, there was a constant interchange of the oft-repeated 
wish. “A merry Christmas and a Happy Xew Year.” 
Words cost nothing, and may often be used unthinkingly, 
but I fancy you will concur with me, dear Reader, in the be- 
lief that if sincerity clings to any well known, and it may be 
somewhat hackneyed expression, it is to this old-fashioned 
formula. All the surroundings of Christmas breathe of 
peace and good will, and from the time, 

“ When shepherds watched their flocks by night, 

All seated on the ground,” 

as the good old Carol has it — down to these latter, and in 
manj^ respects more favored days the season has never re- 
signed its charm, and to a vast proportion of the Sons of 
Men, this Christmas of 1877, [rising although it may, on 
scenes of strife and bloodshed, in many parts of God’s 
earth,] will bring only a sweet halo of peace and forgiving 


Epilogue—Christmas Day. 


love. The song of the angels is as fresh as ever, and will be 
chanted by thonsands of lips with truthful earnest 
unction — Tiny Tims, prayer of ‘‘ God bless us, everyone,” 
in Dickens incomparable story, was only a child’s utter- 
ance, but it carries with it a lesson all may learn, and some 
even aspire to in vain. 

But we must not forget that we have left our friends still 
ensconsed in the old light-house where a brief interval of 
repose followed the period of pleasant social intercourse 
they had enjoyed. 

A clear, sunshiny morning succeeded the night of wind and 
tempest, but having a very natural objection to continue 
their journey on Christmas-Day the travellers determined 
to accept the suggestion of the good doctor, who proposed 
they should all adjourn to the Ked Lion for breakfast and 
afterwards drive over to Porthenna and join his own home 
circle for the remainder of the day. 

The bells of the church were ringing forth a merry old 
Christmas peal, as after wishing Forbes a hearty adieu 
they retraced their steps into Holyhead, where they made 
a capital breakfast, after which a drive of eight miles brought 
them to the Doctor’s hospitable abode. Here a most 
kindly welcome was accorded them by the ladies of the 
family, which consisted of the Doctor’s wife and three 
daughters. Of the festivities that ensued I need say noth- 
ing, suffice it to remark that our friend Basil fell no un- 
willing victim to the witcheries of Mabel Cuming, the 
youngest of the sisterly trio, whilst Stanton Bell persuaded 
the eldest to promise to take a journey across the Atlantic 
to his quiet New Hampshire home at no remote date. The 
remainder of the party being already Benedicts, could only 
watch with interest the movements of their bachelor com- 
rades. This, however, did not lessen their own measure of 
enjoyment of the scene, and when the evening came to an 
end and they all separated, it was with hearty expressions 
of mutual good-will and esteem ; nor did they in after years 
cease frequently to recall their pleasant experiences of 
“ Christmas-Eve in a Light-house.” 


100 


Christmas -Eve in a Light-house. 


A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

They are ringing, they are ringing, 
Our merry Christmas bells. 

In the village, in the city. 

In the dale-church, o’er the fells. 

Be our ways of life so varied. 

Be our fortunes poor or bright. 

Hand in hand with all our brothers. 
We are one at least to-night. 

Nor the rich man in his mansion. 
Nor the sovereign on the throne. 

Nor the beggar in his hovel 
Will enjoy themselves alone. 

We all seek the kindly greeting 
Of some dear, familiar face ; 

We all know that hermit feeling 
For to-night is out of place. 

But one night. Why not for ever 
Should we bind the golden chain 

That shows man his poorest fellow 
Was not sent to earlh in vain ? 

That each sorrow hath a purpose. 
That each gift hath an alloy. 

That ever finely balanced 
Are the scales of grief and joy. 

• Spare a little, then, ye rich ones. 
From your laden coffers now; 

Bring to poverty a sun ray. 

Bring a smile to sorrow’s brow. 

Take it gratefully, ye toilers. 

Toilers up earth’s weary hill; 

•'Tis a green spot in your desert, 

’Tis a good sprung from your ill. 

Yes! be rich and poor united, 

’Tis most grand in Heaven’s sight. 

And a, blessing, not earth's blessing. 
Is on all the world to night ! 


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ScRiBNtR's Monthly from August, 1877, to Januar 3 % 1879, inclusive, and also the splendid 
Christmas Holiday Number of Nicholas for December, 1877, containing one hundred pages 
—the finest number of a children's magazine ever issued in this or any other country ; the 
whole containing more than 2,OCO octavo pages of the best and latest illustrated literature. 


Scribner’s Monthly for 1877-’78. 


Scribner's Monthly is the most dis- 
tinctively American magazine published, 
and yet it has a large circulation in England; 
it undoubtedly ranks among the best illus- 
trated periodicjils of the world. During the 
past year its record has been especially 
orilliant. The best novels of the year, the 
best short stories, some of the choicest 
poems and the best essays, as well as the 
most remarkable series of papers on House- 
hold and Home Decoration, have all ap- 
peared in Scribner. 

« If OXY,”-by EDWARD EGGLES- 
TON (author of “ The Hoosier Schoolmas- 
ter,” Ac.). This new novel will doubtless 
be the most important American serial of 
the year. The first number was published 
in November. Those who have read it in 
manuscript declare Roxy to be much the 
most striking and remarkable story this 
author has ever written. It is illustrated by 
one of the ablest of the younger American 
painters— Mr, Walter Shirlaw, President of 
“ The American Art Association.” 

AMERICAN FIEIiB AND WA- 
TER SPORTS. — This series, which 
has been so attractive a feature in the past 
year, will be continued. The papers are 
separate, are written by specialists, and are 
beautifully illustrated. Some of the best 
and most unusual in subject are yet unpub- 
lished, and will shortly appear. 

THE PICTITRESCIIJE SIDE 
OF AMERICAN FARM EIFE.- 

A series of papers by writers who stand in 
the front rank, both in qualities of style and 
in keen insight of nature. Mr. R. E. 
Robinson, autnor of a delightful paper on 
“Fox-Hunting in New England” in the 
January Scribner, will represent the same 
section in this series. John Burroughs ^vill 
write of Faim Life in New York. Maurice 
Thompson, the poeLnaturalist, will de- 
scribe the characteristics of Western farm- 
ing, of which but little has been written. 
No paper or series of papers yet issued in 
Scribner will so fully realize the constant 
desire of the magazine to keep out of the 
ruts, and, both in text and illustrations, to 
obtain quality ratiier than quantity, and to 
print fresh, strong and delicate work from 
original sources. 

LITERARY PORTRAITS.— 

Ri- hard Henry Stoddard, not only one of 
the most eminent of our poets, but also dis- 
tinguished for his knowledge of English 
literature and English literary hi>torv, will 
contrii)Ute a number of literary portraits, 
including those of Keats, Shelley, Ac. 


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SCltlBNBJi £ CO., 


CLARENCE COOK (author of “ The 
House Beautiful”), will have a series en- 
titled “Some Old Masters,” consisting of 
papers superbly illustrated, on Leonardo da 
Vinci, Raphiiel, Michael Angelo, etc. These 
papers will have an interest and value dif- 
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as they will give the results of the studies 
of a life-time by the most prominent art 
critic in this country. 

OUT-OF-DOOR PAPERS,— by 

John Burroughs, author of Wake Robin,” 
Ac., will contain not only articles on Birds, 
but on “ Tramping,” “ Camping-Out,” and 
kindred topics, Mr. Burroughs’ papers 
will begin in the January number, the first 
being entitled “ Birds and Birds,” and illus- 
trated by Fidelia Bridges. 

SAXE HOLM.— New stories by this 
popular writer will be given, beginning with 
“Joe Hale’s Red Stockings,” in January. 
This “ novelette ” chronicles an episode of 
the late war for the Union. 

ARCHITECTURE OF BIRDS. 

—Dr. Thomas M. Brewer will contribute 
four exquisitely illustrated articles on birds’ 
nests, which every lover of nature will de- 
light in. Dr. Brewer has probably the fin- 
est collection of birds’ eggs in the world to 
draw upon for the illustration of these pa- 
pers. 

MORE OLD LETTERS.-Dr. R. 

Shelton Mackensie, of the Philadelphia 
Press, will prcsei t notes on, and letters 
from, Miss Barrett (Mrs. Browning), Sir 
William Hamilton, Disraeli, Wordsworth, 
Southey, Ac. 

A KNIGHT OF FORTUNE.” 

— Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen’s new novel- 
will be begun in Scribner at the conclu- 
sion of “riis Inheritence.” 

THE EDITORIAL DEPART- 
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Besides the special articles above enumer- 
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Stories of the highest character. 

THE ILLUSTRATIONS of the 
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“ UNDER THE^LILACS,” by Louisa M. Alcott. 

A Serial Story for Girls. 


“ TOWER-MOUNT AIN,” by Gusfavus Frankenstein. 

A “ Kobinson Crusoe ” Story. 


Begin in the December Number of St. Nicholas. Edition 100,000 Copies. 


Some idea of tbe attractions offered in the 


Christmas Holiday Number 


of ST. NICHOLAS, of which 100,000 copies 
have been issued, may be gained from the 
following : 



There are poems by Henry W. liong- 
fellow and William Cullen Bry- 
ant t a fine hitherto unpublished sketch of 
Boy Life, by the late THEODORE WIN- 
THROP : and a short story by the author of 
“ ALICE IN WONDERLAND;” a new fairy 
story, “Sweet Marjoram Dat,” by 
FRANK R. STOCKTON, “THE PETER- 
KINS’ CHARADES,” by LUCRETIA P. 
HALE ; a poetic riddle by Br. J. G. Hol- 
land. and a comparison between the man- 
ners of young folks in old times and nowa- 
days, by Oail Hamilton. 

Of the story element, the brightest fea- 
ture is the beginning of the new serial by 
Miss Alcott. entitled “UNDER THE 
LILACS,” with illustrations by MARY 
HALLOCK FOOTE. 

“ The story is quiet and lovely in feeling, 
full of life, and of quaint, jolly bits of child- 
hood. It is characteristic of MISS ALCOTT 
IN HER BEST VEIN ; but it is not in- 
tended for young readers of vitiated taste 
who need, or think they need, sensational 
stories. The BOY IN THE STORY is a 
character that will charm all BOYS fully as 
much as its girl readers. 

The Christmas Number contains also the 
opening of a new Serial Story for Boys, 
a tale of tropical life, by GUSTAVUS 
FRANKENSTEIN, entitled “ TOWER- 
MOUNTAIN,” admirably illustrated by the 
artists Moran and Kelly ; A Portrait of 
Miss Alcott. with a sketch of her life ; 
several poems oy TWO LITTLE AMERI- 
CAN GIRLS ; a PLAY, and a CHRISTMAS 
CAROL (set to music) : and half a dozen 
complete short stories, bright, funny, ex- 
citing and pathetic, &c., &c. 


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The NEW COVER is by the English 
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SX. r^ICHOXAS FOK 1878. 

Besides Miss Alcott’s Serial for Girls, and 
the three Serials for Boys, to follow each 
other in rapid succession, will contain a 
short serial story by the AUTHOR OP 
“ THE SCHONBERG COTTA FAMILY 
and an article, “AROUND THE WORLD 
IN A YACHT, BOYS 1 ” has been prom- 
ised by a brilliant writer, now on the actual 
tour of the world in his own yacht. There 
will be contributions by a DAUGHTER OF 
THE FAMOUS PETER PARLEY, and a 
Letter to Young Americans by 

Oeorg^e MacDonald. 

The “HOW” SERIES of instructive pa- 
pers, by various authors, will tell HOW to 
bind your own books; HOW they mine 
coal ; HOW to enjoy yourselves at home ; 
HOW to be an agreeable guest ; HOW to 
entertain company ; HOW to be a car- 
penter ; HOW to make an ice-boat ; HOW 
to build a house ; HOW India rubber is 
gathered ; HOW matches are made ; HOW 
money is made ; HOW mackerel are 
caught ; HOW they laid the Atlantic cable ; 
HOW they mine in California ; HOW they 
work in the tea country ; HOW to be a 
parlor magician, etc. There will be also a 
series of stories and sketches of Foreign 
Life, 

Travel and Adventure, 

such as “Old Nicolai” (a Russian story), 
“A Day among the Welsh Castles,” “ Easter 
in Germany,” “The Indians of the Ama- 
zon,” “How Kitty was Lost in a Turkish 
Bazaar,” “ Master Montezuma ” (a Mexican 
story), “Hansa, the Lapp Maiden,” and 
many others. 

“ Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” “ Young Contrib- 
utors’ Department,” “Letter-Box,” “Rid- 
dle-Box,” and “ For Very Little Folks,” 
will be continued. 

The four bound volumes of ST. NICHO- 
LAS already published are the most won- 
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Present for Young People. Each volume 
is complete in itsdf. Vols. 1 and 2 . $3.00 
each ; vole. 3 and 4, $4.00 each. 


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DRAMATICS— ATHLETICS— Training, Boxing, Walk- 
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Canine Notes, 

Trotting, 

Running, 

Fox Hunting, 
Polo, 

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Draughts, 

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THE MODEL 


Printiag House 

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UNITED STATES. 

No. 102 


NASSAU STREE'. , 


Corner Ann. 


JOHN POLHEMUS. 


Rules of the Game 


OF 

EUCHRE. 


:F*3r±o©, - - ZF±f'fceexL Oexi-tiS- 


TJiis little work is intended to fill a want that has 
long hee7t fielt by lovers of the game of E tic lire. A 
purely A merican game, played everywhere from Ban- 
gor to the Brazos, and the A tlantic to the Pacific — as 
popular in club card-rooms and the parlors of the rich 
as in the tent of the soldier or the camp of the miner — 
it is believed that this is really the first attempt ever 
made to establish a set of rules for the game that com- 

J \d themselves for their simplicity and thoroughness, 
ing for their basis — good, strong common sense. 

The author has had the benefit of the advice and 
suggestions of many of the best players in New York, 
in regard to several hitherto considered knotty points, 
and he firmly believes that this work will be accepted 
as the standard authority for the game — as much so 
as Schenck's Laws of Draw Poker or James Clay's 
Whist. 

JOHN POLHEMUS, 

102 Nassau Street, iV. Y. 


Sent by mail, postage prep a in, on receipt of price. 


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